


But the Dust Never Settles When You're Riding on the Wind

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chris does not ask Tom's permission every time they have sex, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hiddlesworth, Hurt/Comfort, Lipgloss, Lots of cuddles, M/M, Panties, Smut, Tattoos, Underage - Freeform, all sex is consensual, hiddlesworth au, mascara, physical violence, prisoner biker fic, there is no written contract for permission for sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 46,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2332115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom is seventeen years old. He starts a Pen-Pal correspondence with Chris, a thirty-six year old biker inmate at the prison who is scheduled to be released soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But the Dust Never Settles When You're Riding on the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. This story is based off [this](http://umakoo.tumblr.com/post/96554187837/hiddlesworth-want) prompt. 
> 
> Just a few notes and warnings:  
> There are moments of intense violence, but NOT between Chris and Tom. I want to make that very clear. Also, it's a daddy kink and age-difference fic. Be forewarned. This is my first attempt at both, so be nice. 
> 
> If this isn’t your thing, then don’t read it. I wrote this over the last two weeks and I’m wiped out. My beta edited at any moment’s notice, too. She’s the best person EVAR. A lot of work was put into this, and distasteful remarks regarding this story should expect my responses to reflect the tone of those remarks. 
> 
> Oh, and I based Chris's hair cut (once out of prison) off of Jake Gyllenhaal's character in the movie Prisoners. Check it out [here](http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/26/59/ad/2659adbcf1586ece9db1e2f16ab94db0.jpg) and [here](http://media-cache-cd0.pinimg.com/736x/f7/a6/55/f7a655501b2627868f15c248ce53df34.jpg) .  
> Thank you! And please enjoy ☺
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely duskyhuedladysatan <3 THANK YOU SO MUCH *weepsfromfatigue*
> 
> UPDATE UPDATE!!!! This story now has a [fanart](http://treemuse.tumblr.com/post/103330127878/its-official-im-doing-hiddlesworth-art-series#notes)! [Treemuse](http://treemuse.tumblr.com) has definitely gone beyond what I could have hoped for. Thank you so much! I LOVE IT AND IT'S GORGEOUS I AM SWOON <3 *_*

School had been out for a week and Tom still had no idea what he would do for the summer project his English teacher, Mrs. Liz, had assigned them. He could still hear her voice as the final bell rang and kids rushed to the doors.

"Don't forget your writing project! Reach out into the community, you'll never know what you'll discover!"

Now, clad in only briefs and a loose T-shirt, Tom searched the city's community outreach website, browsing through social gardening volunteer hours, finger painting art projects with the local YMCA summer camp, and Pen-Pal opportunities.

Tom paused at that.

Clicking on the link, he read the information, voicing his disbelief. "Writing to prisoners?"

Based on good behavior and time left on their sentences, some prisoners were allowed to have pen-pals, people in the community who chose to write to them. Prison officials hoped the exchange of letters would encourage the prisoners to maintain their good behavior and avoid any complications in their release into society. Tom had the ability to choose from a list of prisoners who had not yet been contacted. As prisoners were chosen, their names were removed from the list of contacts, making sure that no one got more attention than anyone else. There were no photos posted, only name, age, the amount of time left on the prisoner’s sentence, and a small blurb of their hobbies.

Tom, head bent over a closed fist, scrolled through the list of over a hundred prisoners, both men and women, but Tom ignored the women's names entirely. Jimmy, Tino, Marty, Jon, Sam, Sammy, Little Sam, Tom scrolled through them all, more curious about age than anything else. Anyone in their twenties seemed too young to him, and anyone over fifty too old. He continued to the next page and read the first name.

"Chris H.," he read. "Thirty six years old. Four months pending. Hobbies: Motorcycles and cars.”

Tapping his thumb on the desk, Tom hesitated. He didn't know why he went ahead with it. He was sure Mrs. Liz had something entirely different in mind when she assigned the writing project, but he also liked how unique it would seem to her. Writing to an inmate, cataloguing their letters into a neat portfolio, presenting it to her in the fall as his summer project.

He bit his nails, flakes of his green polish chipping off. He would need to remember to scrub the polish off before Jeff got home.

Tom shrugged. Why not.

He copied down the address where he would send his first letter, and then closed out of the browser. At best, it would boost his grade by a few points. He just hoped he wouldn't get some kind of stalker out of it.

**

_Dear Chris._

Tom paused, wondering if that sounded too intimate. Hey Chris? Hi Chris? Hello Chris?

"Whatever," he mumbled, and continued writing.        

_Dear Chris, My name is Tom. How are you enjoying prison?_

He groaned and sat back, crumpling up the paper. Suddenly, this whole writing project seemed stupid. He really wished he could see what Chris looked like. Was he big? Or skinny? Was his face in a permanent scowl, or did he smile sometimes? Did he have any tats? Piercings? Any prison wound scars? Were his hands big? Tom sighed. Maybe it would help him better figure out his letters if he could only see a picture of the guy.

_Dear Chris. My name is Tom. I thought I'd write to you and see how you are._

How do you think he is? Tom chided himself. He’s in prison.

           

_June 4 th_

_Dear Chris,_

_My name is Tom. How are you? I'm pretty good. I've been spending my summer vacation out by the tracks, or in my room. Or at the movies. I read a lot. I draw sometimes, too. I could draw you something, if you'd like. What sort of things do you like to do? What do you do to keep busy in prison? I hope this letter finds you well._

_Sincerely, Tom._

With a sigh, Tom licked a stamp to the corner edge and jumped onto his bike, pedaling to the post office in the center of town. He didn't want his mom—or Jeff, for that matter, the creep—to accidentally see his letter to the prison in their mailbox, so he thrust it into the post office door slot as soon as he bumped over the front steps to the ancient building, bike tires spinning. Taking a slower route, Tom returned home, head bent, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his cargo shorts, hoping the noonday sun hid the blush that he felt creeping up his neck.

**

"How was my little boy today?"

The young guy on screen jumped onto the bed. "Good, Daddy. I've been so, so good today."

The man set down his briefcase and began to loosen his tie. "That's what Daddy likes to hear. I don't have to punish you today?"

The guy cast his eyes down and smiled. "No, Daddy. Not unless...you think I deserve it."

A chat box popped up on Tom's screen, and he drew his hand away from his crotch to mute the video. It was his friend, Bobby.

<Baubin7 wrote: Tom. Stop looking at porn and come over>

<Tomm6 wrote: im not watching porn. im reading an article>

<Baubin7 wrote: sure. hey i just got the new modern warfare. come over. please please>

<Tomm6 wrote: cant. going to my grandma's in a min.>

Tom wasn't going to his grandmother's but he was already hard from the video and planned on finishing before taking a nap. Even now the man on screen was bending the younger guy over his lap, and Tom bit at his thumbnail, watching rapt.

<Baubin7 wrote: you suck. well come over this weekend. little sister is driving me crazy.>

<Tomm6 wrote: ok cool. i'll ask my mom.>

Baubin7 wrote: you doing anything for the english project?

Tom groaned, wishing Bobby would drop it and let him get back to his porn.

He bit his lip, not wanting to share his idea for the project just yet. It had been a week since he sent the letter to Chris and had received no reply. It was probably time to start thinking of something else.

<Tomm6 wrote: nothing yet. not sure what to do.>

<Baubin7 wrote: same. i was thinking I could write a letter to the White House every week and see how long it takes to get a reply.>

Now the man was positioning his little boy face down on the bed, whispering roughly that he would take what daddy gave him. He would be a good boy and take daddy's cum. The boy on screen whimpered and Tom's legs squeezed together.

<Tomm6 wrote: dont get accused of terrorism.>

<Baubin7 wrote: shit. didn't think of that. anyway. i'll let you know if I think of anything>

<Tomm6 wrote: k, me too. g2t now.>

<Baubin7 wrote: later.>

Tom closed the chat box and thrust a hand down the front of his shorts. It took a few quick tugs before he was coming, teeth gritted, gasping _daddy_ as the man pounded into the boy from behind, hips so strong and muscular. Spent and boneless, Tom sagged in his chair and closed the browser, but not before clearing his search history. Waddling to the bathroom, he jumped in the shower and hummed a little tune, wondering vaguely if Chris H. had thought his letter was stupid and rejected it into the waste bin and that’s why he hadn’t received a response.

Afterward, wet hair tangled and skin moist, Tom sat back down at his computer and pulled up the Pen-Pal site. As he waited for it to load, he searched in his drawer for his favorite lip gloss, applying some quickly. Rolling his lips together, he searched along the list of inmates but couldn't find Chris's name. Did that mean he had accepted Tom's letter? Jumping up from his seat, Tom ran down the hall and out the front door, ignoring his mother's call that dinner was ready. Frankly, he was surprised she was home. Probably because Jeff was due back soon.

He flipped through the envelopes, electric bill, cable bill, a note from the Jehovah's Witnesses that lived down the street—Are your souls saved? Come to our meeting and we'll pray together—until he got to the last one, a white envelope with the prison's emblem in the top left corner. His name and address was scrawled out in a short, choppy hand. Tom walked numbly back up the drive, staring at the dried ink, smudged slightly on the 'n' of his last name.

"Tom?"

His mother stood at the archway into the kitchen, spatula in hand. She had her straight blond hair wrapped in a messy bun, still in her greasy waitress’ uniform.

Tom tucked the envelope into his back pocket and handed the rest to her.

"Dinner's ready. So go wash up."

"Okay, be right in."

"What came for you?" she asked, skimming through the mail.

He shrugged. "A sports listing for the park summer league. I might do soccer again." Not likely, Tom thought. Jeff had bullied him into one sport too many, all failures and scabbed knees and blamed losses and once, surprising Tom into complete silence, a punch to the lip. Tom’s split lip had healed but Tom, bleeding and bruised, crying in his room, would never forgive how easily she ignored the cut, believing he'd gotten it from some scrap on the street. That had been the year before and she never mentioned it again.

His mother nodded absently at his explanation, already turning away.

Tom raced back to his room and locked the door. Slicing through the top of the envelope with the tip of a ballpoint pen, he slid the letter out, extra careful not to tear it. He pulled it close to his face and started to read.

           

_June 9 th_

_Dear Tom,_

_Nice to meet you. Thanks for the letter. I don't get much mail here. Any, actually. But I have plenty to keep me busy. I have access to the yard for two hours in the morning. I work out there, play basketball with some of the other men. I attend some meetings after midday meal, and can watch tv or whatever before lights out. You said you're on summer break. How old are you? And sure, I'd love a drawing. Are you working on anything right now?_

_Sincerely, Chris._

Tom read it over twice more, feeling a strange sense of elation settle over him. Chris had actually replied! Tom had so many questions. What did he mean by meetings? What kind? Did he have friends inside with him? Or did he have to fend for himself, never sleeping in peace? He didn't know what "the yard" meant but Chris made it seem like maybe it was some kind of outdoor gym. So he works out, Tom thought, already imagining arms and thighs bulging with muscles, wrists thick and dusted with hair. But should he tell Chris his real age? Seventeen suddenly seemed too young to be corresponding with a thirty-six year old prisoner. What if he spooked Chris away? He spread the letter over his chest, feeling protective over it, protective of this fledgling correspondence he had with Chris, who seemed very nice and curious about Tom. Chris was Tom’s secret, one that he wouldn’t have to share with anyone except his English teacher, and even then he could brush it off as nothing important, just a stupid project.

He blinked over Chris's questions again, giddy with the prospect of telling more about himself to this stranger, that this stranger was interested and would listen, would give Tom his undivided attention in fact.

His heartbeat quickened, but he forced himself to fold the letter carefully and slide it back into its envelope.

Chris wanted a drawing. Tom sat over his desk, mulling over the idea of what he could send him. A self-portrait? He scrunched his nose, already imagining how stupid his hair and thin lips would look on paper. Maybe a—

"Tom! Dinner!"

His mom’s voice, tired and thin, still rang loudly down the hall, making him jerk out of his thoughts.

Stashing the letter under his pillow, Tom headed to the kitchen, wondering what color Chris's eyes were and if maybe he would like to see a bit more of the sky.

**

Tom hated having dinner when Jeff was home. Jeff, who always sat at the head of the table, glowering at Tom when Tom's mother wasn't looking, or peppering Tom with asinine questions about his schoolwork, as if he really cared. Jeff was some kind of traveling salesman, making Tom wonder why such an occupation even existed anymore. He didn’t sell vacuums to high heel-wearing housewives, but he did sell some kind of antivirus software to small businesses. Tom’s mother had brought Jeff home one day last year and he’d stuck around since, slowly rooting himself into their home, their lives. His mother worked nights at the diner downtown, taking extra shifts whenever she could, but Jeff was the one who brought in most of the money, which is why Tom figured she let him stay so long, put up with his occasional drinking, his angry shouts, his treatment of Tom.

Worn, but shiny black shoes stacked just inside their bedroom door beside her smaller white slippers, Jeff’s suit jacket flung over the couch, his coffee mug on the counter, cigarette butts in the ashtray by the TV remote. Signs of Jeff’s presence were everywhere, and Tom did his best to escape to his room immediately after arriving back from school. But Jeff sometimes caught him in the hallway. Tom was tall for seventeen, but Jeff was taller. And heavier. And his skin always smelled of ash and day-old aftershave, sour and a bit bitter. Tom didn’t know how his mother got near the man. Tom, afraid and disgusted, would lean away, but Jeff would take his elbow and squeeze it hard.

“You do your homework?” he would always ask.

"Yes,” Tom whispered, eyes down. As slowly as he could, he would draw his free hand behind his back, not wanting Jeff to see the polish on his nails.

“And you pick up around the house before your mother gets home?”

“Yes.”

“Get to your room.”

Jeff would release him and stare after Tom, who would hurry to his room and lock the door, rubbing his elbow and hoping his skin wouldn’t bruise.

Their conversations always turned out the same: Jeff looming, Tom cowering, some part of his body sore after. He hadn’t hit Tom again since that last soccer game eight months before, but Tom could see it in Jeff’s eyes, waiting; see it in the way his hands sometimes curled into fists at the dinner table, upset about one thing or another, Tom’s surliness or the stubborn curl in his hair—“smooth that shit out, you look like a goddamn girl”—or even the hint of glitter on his lips.

It was Tom’s main priority to stay out of Jeff’s way. As it was, his mother seemed too tired to notice anything was amiss, and Jeff was entirely different with her, affectionate and quiet-spoken. Nothing of the hard edges and growled words Tom knew.

Tom figured he would be rid of Jeff one day. Either Tom’s mother finally kicked him to the curb, or Tom’s eighteenth birthday would give him the freedom to finally leave. Still, whichever option happened first couldn’t come fast enough. He went to his wall calendar and flipped the pages. Eight months until February.

**

His letters with Chris continued, Tom becoming more and more ecstatic with every mail delivery. They were exchanging up to two letters a week, hindered by the slow pace of the daily post. As much as Tom wanted to send Chris a drawing, he always hesitated, convincing himself that it was too ugly, too childish. Surely, his rendition of the park at sunset wasn’t something that could in any way compare to what Chris remembered of life outside the prison, right?

But Chris didn’t forget. In fact, he frequently asked Tom about the drawing he was supposed to have sent, writing that he was waiting patiently for it, that he already set aside a space for it on his wall. Tom couldn’t help but wonder if he picked up on a bit of teasing in Chris’s words, a flirtatious tone that had Tom blushing and grinning like a school girl. But he shut those thoughts down, convinced that Chris was just bored locked away in some cell, that his letters to Tom were just blips in his day where he didn’t have to focus on the danger of his surroundings. And Tom often wondered about that danger, what threatened Chris on a daily basis. Did he get into fights a lot? Did he have to follow a certain set of unspoken rules among the prisoners that existed completely separate from the rules invoked by the prison system itself? How exhausting that must be, Tom thought. He had enough trouble just keeping up with high school, where the rules were spelled out clearly. Then again, the student body was in and of itself a type of caste system and maybe high school and prison weren’t that much dissimilar in this regard. Still, Tom wasn’t about to mention this observation in one of his letters to Chris, whom he figured probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.

           

_June 19_ _ th_

_Dear Tom. I have to admit, your letters have been a bit of a pick me up. Some of the stupid shit that happens in here feels like I’m back in high school_ —Tom squealed because he knew it— _but your letters make me smile. They remind me of what I have to look forward to on the outside. The bike crew that I ride with, some of them come see me in here, but most of them keep away. When one of us is locked up, it’s always best to keep your head down. Don’t want to bring any more attention to the crew than necessary. And I understand that. Still, I get lonely. But I haven’t felt like that since we started writing. So thank you. P.S. I’m still waiting for my drawing. Or maybe a picture instead?_

_Sincerely, Chris_

           

Tom sat numb. A picture? He glanced around his room. At the neat stacks of books against the wall, the small twin bed, the desk with his secondhand laptop. On the dresser he kept his hair brush and body lotion. But in the drawer by his bed, he kept his two bottles of nail polish—green and dark purple—as well as a nearly empty tube of lip gloss and the yet unopened package of mascara he’d shoplifted from the drug store at the corner of 6th and Euclid. He remembered running straight home and breathing into a paper bag for a full ten minutes, sweat spilling down his back, thinking the police would break down his door any minute. But nothing happened and he hadn’t yet had the courage to try the black mascara on his blond, blond lashes.

He’d told Chris he was twenty-one, hoping the lie was sufficient enough to keep him writing. But Tom wasn’t sure he was ready to send a picture yet. One look at this scrawny arms and thin torso, at his wild blond curls and pink cheeks and he thought Chris would know for sure he’d lied about his age. Tom was sure he had a copy somewhere of his junior year picture, looking even more pale and pink-cheeked, the small gap in his front teeth more pronounced than it was now. Tom hoped it would close up entirely soon. On second thought, it was probably best not to send that picture.

He penned another letter, explaining the books he was reading and the things he’d found out by the train tracks, which is where he liked to go when Jeff was home, speeding down the hill on his bike over the gutted ditches. Before he lost the courage, he included the drawing he’d done of the park at sunset, hoping to avoid sending a picture of himself. At least for now.

 _I love the drawing_ , Chris had written. _The colors look real. But I guess no picture, huh? Are you shy?_

Tom sat curled up in the corner of his room, blocked from the door by his bed. He bit his lip at Chris’s words, feeling his face flame. It really seemed like this crime-hardened man in prison was waiting around for a picture of _him._ Rubbing a hand down his face, Tom thought about what to do.

He didn’t own a cell phone, so he couldn’t take a picture that way. Maybe a disposable camera from the drug store would be best, but he was afraid to go back there since he’d stolen the mascara. And then his eyes landed on his laptop, and he slowly rose to his feet. It would be easy. Take a picture, send it to himself, go down to the convenience store and print out a copy on the machine they had in the corner. He probably had a couple of bucks in change strewn around his room. He could afford it.

Suddenly nervous, Tom went to the mirror and tried to fix his hair, pushing it back or flattening it down. But the curls stayed fluffed up and he sighed, falling back on his bed. Maybe another time. For now, he’d draw Chris something else, maybe the pier by the ocean where he had sat that one school trip he'd taken when he was twelve, feet sunken in the water, schools of fish darting over his toes. Tom would never forget the feel of all that water, so smooth and ice cold, nothing like the desert he lived in.

**

_July 1 st_

_Dear Chris,_

_I’m sorry I haven’t been able to send a picture. I guess I am kind of shy. I was looking at my calendar today and noticed you have only a couple more months! Congratulations! Do you have any plans for when you get out? I’ll be back in school, but I’m almost done with that too. One more year to go. Things here at home aren’t too great, so I plan on leaving as soon as I can._

_July 3 rd_

_Dear Tom,_

_It’s ok. As you can imagine, I don’t have many picture opportunities in here either, otherwise I’d send you one. I’m not shy at all. After I get out, I plan on having a much deserved shot of whiskey. But only one. I’m not much of a drinker. And then I’m going to jump on my Harley and ride until the sun comes up. I miss my bike. A buddy of mine owns a mechanic shop and he’ll hire me on. There’s not much work for an ex-con, but we make do. What’s going on at home? Is everything okay?_

_July 6 th_

_Dear Chris,_

_I’m ok. My mom’s boyfriend isn’t the nicest person. She works nights and isn’t here most of the time. That’s why I’m out of the house as often as I can to avoid him. Me and my friend Bobby go to the movies. Or we play video games. I sleep over at his house sometimes. But mostly I just read. The library is open late during the summer._

_August 16 th_

_Dear Tom,_

_It’s visiting day here and most of the others are in holding, waiting their turn to see who came for them. I never get visitors, so I’m in front of the TV. I have it all to myself. I can’t tell you how much Fresh Prince I’ve seen. It gives me a chance to laugh for once. Tom, about your mom’s boyfriend. Has he done anything to you? Are you sure you’re ok?_

 

_August 20 th_

_Dear Chris,_

_I promise I am. Things get kind of tense sometimes. But I’ve dealt with it for a long time. He won’t hurt me again. Listen, when are visiting hours? I was thinking maybe I can visit you. But only if you want. I don’t start school until the first of September :)_

_August 22 nd_

_Dear Tom,_

_You would visit me? That would be great, a nice change of pace. Next visiting day is this Saturday. I just have to add you to my visitor’s list. It’s not a very long list. And what do you mean by he won’t hurt you_ again?

**

 

Tom sat in the waiting area at the prison, surrounded by women holding wailing babies and old grandparents with canes. His leg kept bouncing, no matter how hard he tried to get it to stop. He picked at a nail but not too much. He’d only just painted them that morning and didn’t want them to flake. Before Jeff woke up, Tom had changed into clean jeans, his scuffed up black Chuck Taylors, and a grey Rolling Stones shirt. It fit him smaller than before, and he wondered if he’d grown an inch since he last wore it.

Walking to the bus station had taken forty minutes, but he didn’t want to leave his bike chained there, already imagining coming back and finding it gone. His bike was his only means of a quick escape, and he wouldn’t risk losing it. He hadn’t responded to Chris’s last letter. He didn’t know how to explain the dangerous dynamic that existed between him and Jeff, and how if he told his mother, Tom had the nagging suspicion she wouldn’t believe him. In any case, Tom didn’t feel comfortable putting on paper what Jeff had done to him; made it too final, too real, when often Tom could make himself believe it had all been a bad dream. Only six more months and he would be rid of Jeff.

Chris had added him to his visitor’s list, noting that visiting hours started at eight in the morning and ended at two in the afternoon. Arriving at seven meant Tom got through the screening and security checks faster, but had to wait an arduous forty minutes before he could see Chris. He crossed his arms, foot bouncing again. After two months of writing letters he would finally see him, finally be able to put a face to that choppy handwriting.

“Hiddleston!”

Tom gasped and sat up, thinking—absurdly—that it was Jeff yelling for him. But an officer stood at the metal doorway, clipboard in hand, looking around at the assembled visitors. Tom jumped up and headed to him. The officer matched the name tag stuck on Tom’s shirt to the list before him.

“Follow me.”

He was led through a stark white hallway and into a large room filled with metal tables bolted to the floor. There were people sitting at the tables, but no prisoners in sight. The officer guided him to a small table, big enough for two people to sit facing each other, and told him to wait until his inmate was brought out.

_His inmate._

Tom nodded and swallowed past his sudden bout of dry mouth. Glancing around, he saw that there were about twenty tables in total, all differently sized to accommodate more than one visitor and all filling rapidly.  There were more crying toddlers and quietly whispering families and even one member of the clergy. There were officers at every corner of the room, watching silently. The room gave off a cold, calculated vibe, every action acted out with a precision that set Tom’s teeth on edge. Every move, every breath was observed, recorded, analyzed, and he found himself sitting frozen, eyes dancing over it all. Across the way, there was a wall lined by a long pane of clear glass, into which Tom could see was another bright hallway, empty for the moment. On the wall to the left were huge plastic placards with rules for visitors: Touching was permitted during the start and end of the visiting hour. Hugs, handshakes, and kisses were fine, but nothing unsavory. Everything had to be in good taste, whatever that meant. Probably no making out.

Tom fidgeted, his eyes drawn to the far window into the empty hallway, somehow knowing that was where the prisoners would be brought in. A minute went by before his suspicions were confirmed. A line of inmates filed in, all wearing orange jumpsuits. A murmuring started up in the room, family members craning their necks, trying to glimpse their loved ones. The officers along the wall straightened, eyes sharp on the room at large. A loud buzz sounded and then the door to the bright hallway opened. Out came one prisoner at a time. White, black, brown, the men looked entirely different and completely the same, all with guarded, hunched shoulders, cautious eyes, slightly shuffled steps. They weren’t cuffed, but all kept their hands crossed in front of them, out of habit or regulation, Tom didn’t know.

When the prisoners dispersed among the room, finding and greeting their families, it was obvious that the only prisoner left behind had to be Chris. He was tall, very tall, with blond hair falling to his wide shoulders and brows pulled low over his eyes, eyes that finally landed on Tom, the only visitor left. Chris hesitated, and then glanced around, finally taking the first step and moving through the tables toward him.

Tom’s heart rate spiked, sitting up as Chris neared him, eyes wide on his face, so much more handsome than Tom ever imagined. Peeking out of the collar of his orange jumpsuit, Tom spied two long spikes of a tattoo, curving in from behind his neck to stop just beneath the hinges of his jaw. The rest was hidden beneath his clothes. In fact, both of Chris’s arms were tattooed, long sleeves that ended at his wrists, skulls and swirling smoke and the long cold steel of a blade. And then Chris was standing before him, Tom craning his neck to see him up close, finally.

His eyes were blue, thick dark lashes framing them like the lazy span of palm leaves. His full lips were pulled into a frown, accenting the long scar on his right brow. Tom desperately wanted to touch it, to ask the story behind it, but they only stared at each other for a full minute, Tom’s mouth parting slightly.

Chris finally broke away, glancing at Tom’s name tag.

“You’re not twenty one,” Chris said.

“Sit down, inmate. Or be escorted back to your cell.” The officer closest to them had a hand on his baton, addressing Chris.

Jaw clenched, Chris nodded and sank into the seat opposite Tom.

“You’re not twenty-one,” Chris repeated, much softer.

Tom shrugged. “How do you know?”

A sharp laugh. “Because you’re not.”

“How old do I look?”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Fourteen.”

Tom smiled. “I’m seventeen.”

Chris rubbed a hand over his face. “Shit.”

Tom felt a twinge of panic in his gut. “But I won’t be for long.”

Chris crossed his arms. “I had a feeling you were younger. Talking about your stepdad sniffing around you. Staying over at your friend’s house. Summer vacation.”

“He’s not my stepdad,” Tom whispered, spreading his hand on the table, watching the heat of his skin condense on the cold metal. Chris’s voice was so deep, slightly raspy at the ends of his words. Was it from disuse?

Chris flicked his gaze at Tom’s green fingernails, and then back to him.

“So. Jeff,” he said, leaning forward. “You wanna talk about it?”

Tom shrugged. “Not really. What’s your tattoo?” he said, touching his own neck.

Chris studied him, no doubt noting the quick change of topic. “It’s a design. I’d have to take my shirt off for you to see the whole picture.” He smiled when Tom’s cheeks burned red, his teeth white and healthy, surprisingly enough. He glanced down at Tom’s flat chest, his lean belly, and back up at his face. “Is that why you didn’t want to send a picture? Because you knew I’d be able to tell right away?”

Tom wouldn’t look at him, feeling foolish all of a sudden. The man across from him was a stranger, no matter their letters. And he realized that Chris, with his nice face and strong limbs, wouldn’t find anything attractive about Tom. What had he been thinking?

He shifted in his seat, leaning on his elbows, ready to bolt.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Chris said suddenly, and Tom looked up. “I’m glad that I can picture your face now when you write. It’s…nice. To be able to picture you.” And to Tom’s great amazement, Chris was the one to blush, laughing quietly and looking down.

“You’re not mad at me?” Tom whispered.

Chris’s face softened, his brows smoothing out. His hand crept forward, but he stopped himself last second, their fingers inches apart. “No, Tom. I’m not mad at you.”

Tom breathed out slowly, nerves dissipating. They smiled at each other, Tom’s foot nudging Chris’s under the metal table.

Chris, eyes drifting closed at the contact, went still. His hand fisted, looking huge next to Tom’s smaller one, tanned and calloused, with big veins snaking into the inked skin of his arm. Tom licked his lips, and sat forward, captivated by the effort it took for Chris to control the emotion in his face.

Finally, those blue eyes settled on him and Tom was taken aback by the confusion in them.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” Chris said quietly, keeping his foot pressed to Tom’s.

“Me either,” Tom admitted, rubbing his arms. They kept it so cold in that room.

They said nothing for a few moments, and then Chris shook his head. “What are you doing writing to a guy like me?”

“I didn’t know you were going to be this hot.”

Chris huffed, face a little pink, but said nothing.

“Would you prefer that I stopped?”

Something in Chris’s face hardened, a tightening around his mouth that showed Tom just how averse he was to the idea. “No.”

Tom smiled and looked down, pressing his elbows together. “Okay, then.”

Chris pointed at Tom’s arms. “Do you do that on purpose?”

Tom looked down, confused. “Do what?”

“Squirm around like that?”

Face burning, Tom met his eyes. “No. I…just…I don’t know. It’s not consciously done.”

“Hmm.”

“Why?” He didn’t mean to sound so breathless, but Tom’s heart was pounding in his throat and he was having trouble looking away from the man before him. “Do you like it?”

Chris blinked, a blunt fingernail scratching at the surface of the table. He cleared his throat. “A little. Yeah.” Tom was pleased to see that Chris’s own leg began bouncing underneath the table.

Emboldened, Tom sat propped on the edge of his seat. “You know, I’ve thought about you a lot. About what you might look like.” Chris’s eyes snapped up to his, and he listened, sitting so still in his chair. Tom swallowed and continued. “What you might sound like. I had no idea…I mean, when you walked in here…”

He shut up, elbows rubbing again.

“Did I disappoint you?” Voice soft, Chris continued to pick at the table, the scratch of his nail on the metal doing nothing to distract Tom from his closed-off face, as if braced for Tom’s rejection.

“No.”

Chris’s eyes darted up to his, and then he smiled, slow and wide, stealing Tom’s breath. Tom let out a nervous giggle and prattled on. “I mean. I wondered what you might think of me and I’ve enjoyed our letters so much. They’ve been such a great distraction from things at home. And summer is so boring. I’ve ridden around all over the city, but I have to be careful by myself. Kids like to beat on other kids, especially if you’re alone and they want your bike.” He smiled tightly, easing back into silence, more familiar to him than anything. 

Chris listened to every word. And then he took a deep breath. “Honestly, Tom. I didn’t know what to expect. I knew you were a kid. There was something really innocent about your letters, but I couldn’t get myself to stop writing to you. I thought about you a lot too. And well… I’m not disappointed either.”

Tom laughed, nervous. He had a bundle of butterflies in his stomach and he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He laughed again, feeling his cheeks warm.

“But I’ll be bad for you,” Chris added. The words were hollow, regretful, and he didn’t meet Tom’s eyes.

Tom nudged his foot again. “I don’t think you will be.”

Chris tossed his head back. “Look at you. You’re like a kitten. You don’t think with one touch, my grimy paws won’t dirty you up?”

Tom shrugged. “I’ve thought a lot about that too. The touching.”

The muscles in Chris’s jaw jumped and he looked away. “Fuck.” Looking determined, he faced Tom again. “Look kid, I’m twenty years older than you—.”

“Nineteen years,” Tom interrupted, but closed his mouth at the glare Chris threw at him.

“—and I’m about to be released. You don’t want to be getting mixed up with a criminal like me.”

Tom wasn’t deterred. “I don’t care about the age. I actually really like that you’re older. Chris, you had to have felt it earlier. Why can’t we explore this?” Mind racing, Tom really had no idea what would be waiting for him at the other end of this visiting hour, but now that he’d seen Chris, heard him, spoke with him, it became cemented in his mind. This was something he wanted to try.

Chris said nothing.

Feeling the hot creep of shame on his neck, Tom suddenly felt very small in that big, cold room. Like Chris was this great flame and Tom only a fluttering moth, floating around him, desperate to be near the light, no matter how devastating it would be to be consumed. “And so what if I look like a kitten. You want me to change? I can start working out, drink protein—.”

“Don’t you dare,” Chris said softly, voice low in warning, playful almost. Tom stared at him, waiting. “You look just…fine… _nice…_ the way you are. Don’t change anything.”

Tom smiled and cast his eyes down, hearing Chris’s quiet intake of breath. Tom filed that away as something he knew Chris liked. Feeding off of Chris’s tension, he thought of something quick to say. “So, um. Can I ask why you’re in here?”

Blinking around at the room, the scowl returned to Chris’s face.

“I got slammed with aggravated assault and battery.”

“What’s that?”

“I beat someone up so bad they had to be hospitalized for a while.”

Tom ducked his head. “Oh.”

Chris smirked. “A guy named Tony. He was an idiot. One of our bike crew gone rogue. Made the mistake of handling a crew job on his own. The leader of our group, Mick, sent me after him.”

“So you just…did what this guy told you to do?”

“Yes. You make a mistake, you get what's coming to you.”

Tom shifted, not exactly seeing the sense in what Chris said.

“Besides,” Chris added. “I get the feeling you know what it is to obey.”

“Fifteen minutes!” The officer by the exit announced.

Chris glared at the man before flicking his gaze back to Tom who, having jumped at the loud announcement, was blushing scarlet.

“Only if I really like the guy,” he said softly, drawing his eyes from the officer back to Chris. “I don’t obey just anyone.”

And in the light filtering in through the high windows, Chris soaked him in, committing him to memory, the lightly freckled arms, the golden curls, those big blue eyes, all the blushing. He didn’t expect the kid to be so slender, so innocent. He eyed his long neck, already knowing how easy the skin would be to bruise, to suck on and mark. He imagined the rest of him was just as pale, just as sweet and delicate. Even now he glimpsed a sliver of skin above Tom’s hip where his shirt had ridden up. Chris’s hands would look so big and tan on that body, and he swallowed past the rise of lust in his veins. He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t let the other guys know how much this scrawny kid affected him, and having only just met him, no less.

Tom kept licking his lips, drawing Chris’s eyes there.

“That’s good,” he managed to say, voice gruff. He cleared his throat and glanced around the room again.

“Are we going to keep writing?” There was a shy uncertainty in Tom's words that made Chris soften, made him want to gather him up in his lap and stroke his hair, block him from view of all the other grungy men in orange, men he knew would have no problem bruising this flower.

He sat quietly for a moment. “Tom, your letters…There have been a few times I could have fucked up. I could have fought someone or done something that I know would have extended my time. But I kept thinking of your letters. Of you. And I didn’t. I’m out of here in a couple of weeks. So yeah. I think we should keep writing. If you want to.”

Tom grinned. “Yes. I want to.”

“You’re really…eager, aren’t you? About a lot of things?”

Tom nodded. “I guess so.”

Chris smiled softly. “We’ll see about that.”

And when the hour was up, they rose and stood before each other, Chris’s height, his entire bulk, alarming and exciting to Tom. He started to reach his arms out when Chris suddenly stuck out a hand. Slightly hurt, Tom took it. Chris’s whole hand swallowed Tom’s, their palms sliding together, fingers gripped tightly.

“Will I see you again?” Chris asked.

“Yes,” Tom said.

“Next week?”

“Next week.”

As the officer began rounding up the prisoners, Chris’s hold on his hand tightened. “Are you going to be okay with Jeff?”

Tom’s mouth opened and closed. He honestly wasn’t sure. Every day was like walking over a field filled with land mines. One of these days he was going to step wrong and something would blow up in his face.

“I have to be,” he said quietly, and judging by the way Chris's lips curled in a silent grimace, Tom knew his answer wasn’t good enough for Chris. Chris who hadn’t existed in Tom’s world only two months before, would suddenly become his fiercest protector. At least that’s how Tom liked to think of it. He could be entirely wrong about everything. He usually was.

The officer approached them. “Let’s go, inmate.” He took Chris’s shoulder and spun him, herding him toward the back hallway, his hand yanked out of Tom’s.

Tom stared after him, watching as Chris was pushed into line, blending in with the other inmates, cries of farewell rising from the family members left behind. Chris kept his gaze on Tom, face hardening after a minute, brows drawing low. And then he turned away, leaving Tom in the wake of his heated glare, features cold and closed off, ready for whatever hardships prison life offered in the bowels of wherever that hallway led them.

Feeling bereft, Tom sank back down into the chair as the room emptied around him, wondering however vaguely, what kind of situation he’d stumbled onto.

The bus ride home felt strange and disorienting, Tom’s skin too tight, the air pressing in on all sides. Taking a deep breath to settle himself, he tucked the hand Chris had shaken against his chest and curled into the window, willing the week to pass quickly.

**

“Where the hell were you?”

Walking through the front door, Tom flinched as soon as he heard that voice. Jeff stood in the middle of the living room, a can of beer in hand. His mother was, like always, nowhere around.

"Your mother was worried sick when she woke up and you weren't in your room. She had to leave to work like that. Who the hell do you think you are, just wandering off?"

Tom kept his hand on the doorknob, his mind already on his bike thrown just outside. His mother never worried about him, never checked on him before she went to work. It must have been Jeff who checked, Jeff who was angry that Tom wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

“I was out with Bobby,” he mumbled, but Jeff sneered.

“Oh, really? Because Bobby came by looking for you.” Tom’s face must have shown his surprise or fear or something, because Jeff bobbed his head, happy to have caught Tom in a lie. “Yeah. Only a few hours ago. Said to let you know he came by. Such a good friend.” His slow steps brought him closer and closer to Tom, who backed up against the open door, ready to flee. He should have by now. There was no way he would make it around Jeff and to his room.

Jeff stopped a few feet away. “But you’re not a good friend, are you? You don’t let your friends know where you’ve gone. You sneak off like the little shit I know you are. You’re a little shit…aren’t you?”

Counting his breaths, Tom held still a moment and then turned on his heel, halfway over the threshold, his bike just out of reach, when he felt a hand grab him by the back of the shirt. He was hauled backwards and thrown into the wall. Jeff slammed the door, his beer can spilled on the floor.

Heart in his throat, Tom watched him, tears already gathering in his eyes. He had to crane his head to see him, and it was nothing like when he had to look up at Chris. He much preferred that hawk like gaze, so warm with promise, to this alcohol-laden scorn.

Jeff took him by the shoulders and squeezed hard. "My beer's spilled. See what I mean about being a little shit?"

"Please," Tom murmured, angling his face away, skin crawling. "I didn’t mean to. I'm sorry."

This wasn't the same, this was nothing like those videos he loved to watch online, where the daddies came home and spanked their little boys, playfully, gently, and even when they were a bit rougher, Tom could tell the difference between a lead up to amazing sex and the pure cruelty this was. Jeff disgusted him. His touch was hard and terrible, and Tom couldn't stand being near him. Whenever he found himself a proper daddy, he knew he would want to always please him, want to touch and serve him. Be a good boy for him.

But not Jeff. Never Jeff.

"Sorry, my ass," Jeff growled. "You spilled my beer!" He lifted his arm and Tom had only a second to brace himself before Jeff backhanded him, the sharp ridges of his knuckles stinging Tom's cheek with the blow. He cried out and would have fallen to the floor had it not been for Jeff's hands clenched in his shirt yanking him upright and slamming him back again. And then his eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck is this?"

 His breath reeked of beer. Tom squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to breathe.

"Is this _nail polish?"_

Tom's eyes sprang open. Jeff was glaring at Tom's hand, the same one Chris had shaken not two hours before.

"So you are a little fag. I fucking knew it. Flitting around here like a goddamn fairy. Is that where you were today? Letting some other cock sucker fuck you in the ass?"

Tom was sobbing, struggling to get out of his grip. "No! I—I was j-just out!"

"Out. Yeah, you’re out now. To me.”

Tom's eyes widened as Jeff's hand drifted to his own belt, unbuckling it, pulling it loose.

“I'll show you fucking in the ass."

Tom started kicking, trying to wiggle out from between Jeff and the wall. "No! Please!" He'd never threatened him with rape before. And Tom had never—he couldn't let him do it.

Already he felt his cheek swelling, throbbing painfully with every frantic beat of Tom's heart. And with Jeff's anger-fueled abuse, he would no doubt leave Tom with serious damage.

Jeff lifted his hand and smacked him again, same cheek, same force. Ears ringing, spots danced before Tom's eyes and his arms went limp. But outside, a car door slammed and they froze. Tom's mother was finally home. Jeff released him and Tom slumped to the floor.

"Get out of my sight," Jeff whispered, already turning away. Tom crawled to his feet, running down the hall and to his room. He locked the door and ran to the mirror, sobbing quietly. His cheek was bruising badly, but the swelling could have been worse. As it was, Tom was immensely relieved that Jeff, too blinded by Tom’s insolence and nail polish, hadn’t spotted the prison name tag still stuck on his shirt. He peeled it off carefully, folding it into a tiny square so that only his name could be seen above the words “Visitor for Inmate #667596 Hemsworth, C.”

With his mother home, Tom knew Jeff wouldn't dare touch him again. He would walk with her into the kitchen, ask her about her day. And after a quick dinner, Jeff would take her into their bedroom and do all sorts of unimaginable things to her. Was it that good? Tom wondered. Was it worth keeping him around? How he must reek. And the kisses…Tom shuddered. How terrible.

Tom couldn’t believe Jeff had actually been about to…but would he have? Would he really have thrown Tom down on the floor and forced himself in? Fresh tears burst over his eyes, trying not to imagine it. He hoped he never had to find out. Curling up gently on his bed, careful with his cheek, he reached under the mattress for the stack of letters he kept saved there. He wiped at his tears and then sniffed along the edges of the envelopes, imagining Chris's scent there. But why imagine his scent when he could imagine _Chris_ , that big warm body, making Tom feel safe and protected. Hugging his pillow, Tom slowly calmed down, weeping into its soft cushion, noiseless. He didn’t think Chris would ever hurt him. He wouldn’t hit him like Jeff did. And if Tom needed a bit of discipline, Chris would do it the right away, smacking his bottom and not his face, or punching his stomach, or kicking his back. No. Chris wouldn’t do that. Tom knew he wouldn’t.

“Daddy,” he murmured into his pillow, already half asleep, cheek aching, half remembering the way the sunlight had filtered in through the windows in the prison visiting room, casting Chris’s hair golden, like long stalks of wheat.

**

“What the fuck happened to your face?”

Waiting at the table for Chris and the other prisoners to be escorted in, Tom had touched around his cheek, the skin noticeably less swollen, but still tender.

As soon as Chris sat before him, he’d zeroed in on the bruise.

Tom looked down, hand lifting on its own, blocking his cheek from view.

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “I’m okay.”

Chris leaned forward, anger narrowing his eyes. “Like hell you’re okay. Did he do that?”

Tom kept his eyes down. He said nothing.

“Answer me.”

Tom flinched and then nodded.

“When?”

“Just after I got back from seeing you last week.”

Chris’s eyes closed. “Goddammit.”

Tom sat up, reaching his hands across the table, but he drew them back at the last minute. Chris watched this movement, eyes flicking around the room. Instead, he nudged Tom’s foot. They pressed their shoes together and Tom felt the wire wrapped tight inside his ribs loosen a bit.

“I’m okay, Chris,” he whispered, fingers twisting together. “I’ve been avoiding him. And once school starts, it’ll be better. I can stay after class. There’s some programs I can attend. Drama and arts and crafts and stuff.” He shrugged. “Sometimes he’s too drunk by the time I get home. And I’m light on my feet. I can make it down the hall without him knowing.”

Chris glowered. “I don’t like it. I don’t like that he has access to you.”

“I don’t either.”

“Why does he do it? Is that all he does? Is hit you? Has he—.” He paused, sitting back heavily, as if something had just dawned on him. “Has he tried something more?”

Shifting in his seat, Tom remembered the clink of Jeff’s belt buckle as he tore it off, holding Tom roughly to the wall. He closed his eyes, willing the image to go away, and that was all he had to do for Chris to know the truth.

His fists, closed and shaking, were pressed to the tabletop, and his eyes, when Tom looked at him, were narrowed and livid. A line of desire shot straight down Tom’s spine, and he squirmed in his seat, hands stuffed between his knees. In the shaft of light from the window, Tom could see the bristles of Chris’s stubble, gold with tiny spikes of grey.

“He’s tried is all,” Tom admitted quietly. “He’s never actually…you know.”

Still Chris said nothing.

“Chris,” he whispered, and Chris blinked, focusing on him. Tom smiled, trying to draw him out of his dark mood. “Look at me. Focus. You’re almost out of here. Please don’t do anything to compromise your release. That was the point of our letters, right? I mean…you’re not going to make me wait longer, are you?” He rubbed Chris’s shoe with the toe of his Converse. “Please?”

Chris bent his head and took a deep breath, rubbing his face roughly. “Fuck, Tom. I’m counting every goddamn minute.” He leaned his head on his hand. “No, baby. I’m not going to make you wait any longer.”

Tom’s heart skipped a beat at the nickname. A rush of emotion lit like a flame in his chest and he suddenly didn’t know what to do with himself. He grinned, cheeks red, the bruise appearing darker because of it, and because he couldn’t help himself, Tom reached across the table and touched Chris’s wrist. His fingers looked so thin and pale compared to Chris’s and he wondered, quickly, what they would look like tangled together on a bed.

Chris eyed his hand and then, surprising Tom, placed his big palm over it, squeezing once. His skin was so warm Tom almost moaned, managing to swallow it back at the last second. Still, their hour was up and Tom was reluctant to let go. But he did, and Chris was taken away, turning his head just before stepping into the back hallway, his eyes locking onto Tom. The next time they saw each other, Chris would be a free man and there would be nothing stopping them.

**

Chris had written to Tom telling him not to be there when he was scheduled for release.

 _I want to make sure I get situated first ok? But I’ll come for you_ , he promised in his last letter. _You’ll know it’s me._

And so with restless sleep and a gradually fading mottled cheek, Tom started school again. He met up with Bobby after their last class, going behind the bleachers to do their homework and smoke. Or rather, Bobby would smoke and Tom would take the occasional drag, coughing when the chemicals stung his throat. And when Bobby had to go home, Tom would sneak into the library and draw in the corner while a crafts program took place in the front tables. After six, he would hop on his bike, hunger driving him home. Jeff’s car wasn’t in the driveway so he walked in through the front door rather than climb in through his window. There was nothing made so he grabbed a banana and a packet of Pop Tarts and locked himself in his room. It didn't get by him that no one at school asked about his bruised face. Not even Bobby, who probably figured Tom had gotten into another scuffle over his bike.

As promised, Tom had compiled all of his letters with Chris—except for those that became noticeably more personal and flirtatious toward the end of summer, those he saved for himself—into a nice portfolio, including a short paper he’d written with mostly bullshit observations about the prison system, juxtaposing freedom and incarceration, blah blah. Mrs. Liz’s eyes lit up when he presented the binder to her, calling his project creative and insightful. He’d smiled and thanked her, but Tom kept his true excitement quiet. Neither she nor anybody knew of the flutter of emotions that had taken residence in his chest, like tiny tickling wings, since sending that first letter three months before.

His thoughts of Chris helped stifle the terror he felt from living with Jeff. It seemed his rage at Tom had tripled of late. And the only reason Tom could think of was that the nail polish had tipped him over from general dislike to full on hatred. Tom had always been so careful with hiding what Jeff called ‘faggoty things’. His lip gloss, his nail polish. That sample strip of perfume he’d swiped at the mall, rubbing it on his neck at night. He had one pair of lace panties, having paid for it in quarters at the dollar store. He loved them so much, a tiny pale purple thing that hugged his hips so gently and snug, but he only wore those at night, too, afraid Jeff would take one look at him and be able to see them through his jeans. As it was, they were beginning to wear thin and he would need to buy a new pair soon.

For now, Tom crept about his own house, always slinking around corners, peering into the ashtrays for any fresh cigarette butts, keeping track of where Jeff was in the house in order to circle around him. In the week before Chris was released, there were a few instances when Tom had been unable to escape Jeff. The first time had been for dinner when Tom’s mother was home, Jeff glaring at him over her head. And the second had been after he overheard Jeff arguing about Tom quietly with his mom, saying, "Doesn't it worry you how tightly he wears his clothes? The nail polish? It isn't right, Susie. He needs discipline." And his mother, her voice tired, moving around their bedroom, probably taking off her shoes after a long day at the diner, had simply replied, "Just leave it alone, Jeff. The boy is simply experimenting. All the kids do. It's how they express themselves. He'll straighten out in time."

Tom thought he had managed to slip away before Jeff stormed out of the room, but he must have caught Tom dashing out the back door because the next thing Tom knew Jeff had a handful of his hair and was slamming him against the brick wall outside, hand clamped over Tom's mouth.

"Sneaking around, are you?"

Tom, pushing back, tried crying out, but it came out muffled and quiet, and Jeff smiled, small and hideous.

"Quit your struggling." He pressed himself to Tom, who tried sinking back, wishing he could disappear into the wall. "Has anyone fucked you in the ass lately? Maybe you need a good spanking, huh? That'll teach you not to eavesdrop."

Bile rising, Tom widened his mouth and bit down on the thick meat of Jeff's palm.

"Fuck!" Jeff growled and released him. Tom lifted his leg and stomped down on Jeff's foot. Ducking under his arm, he sprinted for the low wall lining their small property.

"Come back here, you little shit!"

Heart in his throat, Tom scaled the wall and launched himself over the top, landing hard on the other side. Feet skidding, Tom scraped his hands and knees on the broken glass and rocks of the dirty alleyway behind their house. He started running again, turning back to see Jeff watching him over the top of the wall, face unnervingly calm and cold with threatening promise. Sprinting harder, Tom rounded the corner and collapsed gasping against the wall of their neighbor's house, breathing heavy. He bent double when his stomach clenched and vomited, the vile taste of Jeff's hand, like the dry scratch of dust, still lingering on his tongue. After the alleyway, he made his way to the park bathroom, balling up a wad of wet paper towels and sealing himself into one of the two stalls to dab at his bloody skin, knocking loose the bits of gravel that had dug in deep. It wasn't until well after midnight that he had the courage to return home, climbing in gingerly through his bedroom window, palms and knees stinging.

Showering as quietly as he could, Tom slipped back into his room and locked the door, stuffing a chair under the knob for good measure. Under his covers, Tom hugged his pillow and thought of Chris, who would come for him any day now. Imagining that big hand cupping the top of his head, Tom fell into a deep sleep, feeling safe for the first time in months.

**

And then two nights later, with Jeff and his mother watching soaps in the living room, Tom was finishing up the last bit of his homework when he suddenly startled at his desk. The roar of a motorcycle erupted loudly from the street, vibrating like thunder through his walls. He hurried to the window and pulled aside the curtains, and there on a gleaming behemoth of low growling metal sat Chris.

He revved the engine again and then looked up at Tom’s window. When he spotted him, face pressed to the glass, eyes wide, he smiled and Tom felt his heart swell, painfully and beautifully. Moving fast, he pulled on black jeans over his purple panties and yanked on his ragged Chuck Taylors, shrugging into a short jacket last. Just as he heard Jeff yell something about all that racket outside, Tom flicked off his light and jumped out his window. Chris waited for him at the curb, one foot propped on the pavement, the other already on the pedal, ready to go.

His hair was different. Instead of hanging down to his shoulders, Chris hair was buzzed short on both sides, with long strands slicked back down the middle. It exposed more of his neck, and especially the long thick lines of the tattoo that curved in to his jaw from behind his nape.

Tom stopped just short of him and they smiled at each other. Leaning on Chris’s arm, Tom bent close and kissed his cheek, letting his fingers slide over the shorn hair on the side of Chris’s head. And then he grinned, throwing a leg over the back of the bike and climbing on behind Chris. He propped his feet on the frame and wrapped his arms around Chris’s waist, fingers curling into his shirt on instinct. With a low laugh, Chris pulled into the street, the engine purring loud and long between Tom’s legs. He shivered and hugged Chris tighter, pressing his forehead against the warm back of Chris’s white shirt.

And because there was a rough wind in his hair and a gorgeous man in his arms, Tom laughed, his giggles lost in the maelstrom of noise and color and light flashing by. Chris lay a hand over Tom’s for a short moment, thumb stroking warmly, and Tom rubbed his cheek over Chris’s shoulder, his body responding in that tingly way he knew from watching his videos online. Only it was much faster, his blood singing in his veins, flushing just under his skin. It was only ever by the power of his own imagination that Tom got off late at night, his own hands and fingers never enough to get him to that place so many people talked about. But Chris was real. And he was so warm and firm and _big_.

Murmuring, Tom shifted in the seat, eyes closed, no idea whatsoever where they were going or how far they’d already gone. All he knew was the sudden urgency in his bones, to touch the man in front of him, to be touched by him, to know that warmth all over, to finally trace the edges of that great big tattoo with the wet tip of his tongue. Sliding his hands down Chris’s chest, he felt the hard contours of well-defined pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen, and then lower to the small bump of his belly, gone slightly soft with age.

Better to feel the long clench of his muscles over that trembling vibration, Tom squeezed his thighs around the narrow hips in front of him, nudging his pelvis forward, letting Chris feel his desire. His hands strayed to the thick meat of Chris’s inner thigh, sliding up, up to the apex of his legs, so very close—.

But then Chris was cutting a sharp turn and Tom gasped, hanging on tight as they moved with the curve of the bike. Pulling in behind a decrepit looking structure that could have once been a fast food restaurant, long abandoned, Chris shut off the engine. Before he could orient himself, Tom was being hauled off the bike, face inches from Chris’s own, bewildered at how easily Chris could lift him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Chris asked, shaking him gently by his shoulders. “You can’t do shit like that when I’m driving, Tom. We could crash. That pretty face of yours would be smeared all over the pavement.”

Tom’s breaths jumped out shakily, trying not to cry but he felt so light, like a fluffy cloud or the bright rays of the sun, burning and twirling down to the earth. Pupils blown wide, he went soft in Chris’s arms. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice small. He swallowed, lashes heavy with tears. “But I can’t help it. I want it so bad.”

Chris stared at him, dark brows low, eyes sharp with reprimand, but then something softened around the edges, and his hands skimmed over Tom’s arms to cup his neck tenderly. “You want it bad, baby?”

Not daring to believe, Tom nodded fast.

“How bad do you want it? Tell me.”

Legs like jelly, Tom licked his lips. “I want it so bad. Give it to me. Please, daddy.”

Chris froze for a long moment, eyes wide, darting back and forth over Tom’s face.

Tom had the good sense to wonder if he’d just made a terrible mistake. If by calling Chris ‘daddy’ he’d ruined any chance the two of them might have had together, destroying the thin and tremulous connection they’d managed to weave through their short letters and Tom’s few prison visits. He waited, heart jammed in his throat, biting at his lip so hard he almost drew blood.

And then Chris was backing Tom up against the peeling wall of the empty restaurant, lips hard on his own, tongue bullying into his mouth. Crowding over Tom, they both groaned, Chris locking an arm around Tom’s neck, the other roaming down his back to grab his ass.

They finally broke away, Tom’s lips tingling, eyes half lidded with longing.

Chris swallowed hard. With a wide hand, he palmed the tented front of Tom’s jeans. Tom whined, hips shooting forward.

“You want it bad, baby?”

Eyes watering with relief, Tom sobbed quietly, clutching at Chris. “Yes, daddy.”

“Get on the bike then.”

He kissed him again, rough, brief, and then he was yanking Tom by the hand, both climbing back on the bike. Tom squeezed himself close, laying a soft kiss to the back of Chris’s neck before tucking his head between his shoulder blades. The engine roared to life and the bike jumped forward, Chris guiding it onto the street, the deep purrs of its inner gut like sweet music to Tom’s ears, sitting curled around that broad back, eyes closed again, smiling without fear.

**

Chris’s house was tiny. It was an old adobe style place with a sagging front porch in need of a new paint job, flakes of faded blue scattered in the overrun front yard. A tiny garden, mostly weeds, had begun to creep wildly, crawling and choking one side of the house, making Tom think of those little homes in fairy tales that the heroine always stumbled across when she was lost in the woods.

It was the back garage, however, that impressed Tom the most. With a low rumble, Chris broke away from the main road and onto a dirt path, driving around the side of his house and towards a building that looked more like a workshop that a garage. It looked just as overgrown with weeds, but Tom could tell it was lovingly cared for and an obvious addition to the property. Chris let the bike idle, climbing off and unlocking the two large doors kept sealed by a padlock and chain. He pulled them open and Tom got his first glimpse inside. Tall and lined with sheet metal and supported by thick beams of wood, the garage was deep but sturdy, able to hold two full sized cars. Tom, open mouthed, took it all in, scooting back when Chris climbed on again, kicking along the dirt floor, guiding the Harley inside. But instead of cars, the middle of the space was taken up by a center worktable laden with tools and engine parts. Shelves lined the walls, full of more miscellaneous mechanic stuff, too difficult for Tom to identify. State plates—Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Wyoming, Montana, Utah, California, Colorado—were nailed in place next to posters of half-naked women draped over the hoods of cars or motorcycle handlebars. Tom blushed and shifted his eyes away.

There were two bikes parked in the other half of the garage. All in various shades of black and dark red and gleaming chrome, they looked somewhat similar to the one they’d ridden in on. Chris helped Tom off the back, his leg muscles already slightly sore.

“This is all yours?” Tom asked, whispering as if he was in some kind of church.

“Yeah. A friend of mine kept an eye on it while I was locked up.”

“And these are your bikes?”

Chris smiled, taking his hand and pulling him deeper into the garage. “This one’s a Harley. 2008 Softail Custom. And those two,” he said, pointing to the ones parked beside the work bench. “The one on the right is also a Harley. But a 2009 Cross Bones. And the left one is a Ducati Monster 796. The Italian.” He spoke so lovingly about them, his voice soft with affection. “I had another, but I wrecked it just before I was taken in.” He turned away and they left the garage, chaining up the doors again.

Tom couldn’t stop staring at him. He leaned his head on Chris’s shoulder, pressing his nose to his shirt, his hand curving around his waist. He smelled of clean sweat and something thicker, like motor oil. But beneath that Tom thought he smelled a trace of floral, something that made him think of the color purple. And then he realized with alarm that he was wearing his purple panties. He took a small step back, face burning.

Chris finished with the chain and turned to him.

“Come inside with me,” he said, voice low.

And trudging through the tall grass, Tom held tight to his hand, taking the chance to glimpse at the empty land around them. They were so far from everything. He’d seen no neighbors along the way, and what if Chris really hadn’t been in jail for assault and battery? What if he’d been in jail for murder? Murder of a young teenage boy whose body still hadn’t been found?

As they passed by the scraggly, blooming garden, Tom caught a whiff of the underlying scent on Chris’s skin, and he knew suddenly that Chris spent a lot of time on his porch, just feet from where the garden’s fragrance wafted freely, the desert brush and thickets spreading wide before them. Saguaros and tumbleweeds and ancient cactus barrel like silent sentinels on this small piece of land. Cigarette butts littered the creaking floorboards, and Tom again marveled at how nice Chris smelled, so unlike Jeff and his odor of ash and sour breath. Chris was clean, even if his fingers seemed perpetually stained with engine grease.

And then they were inside and Chris had him pressed to the door and his mouth was on him again, and Tom moaned because he’d missed it already. Big hands swiped under his shirt, feeling callous on his sensitive skin. That hot tongue pushed between his lips and made to explore his mouth, nudging Tom’s tongue, licking at it.

Tom had only ever kissed one person before, his cousin Anna, when they were eleven. It was wet and slimy and very uncomfortable, even when they’d done it again the day after. Still, it had given him a feel for kissing and what to expect, but nothing could have prepared him for the great muscle that was Chris’s tongue, probing into his mouth, vibrating with their groans. Hands felt over his ass and then he was being lifted, hefted up against the door. He squealed, legs wrapping around Chris’s waist, grabbing his shoulders for balance.

“I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall,” Chris promised, burying his face in Tom’s neck. He sucked at the tender point at the base of his throat, nipping with his teeth. Brought above Chris’s eye level, Tom gazed hazily at the room, at the limp leather couch, at the battered coffee table with its motorcycle magazines and Playboys and TV Guides, and further in at a lopsided table and small kitchen. He cupped Chris’s head and held him to his throat, undulating his hips, where his cock pressed against Chris’s abdomen, trapped by jeans and lace.

“Daddy,” Tom breathed, and cried out when Chris groaned and brought Tom’s hips down hard, rubbing him over his hard erection again and again.

“Tom,” Chris rasped suddenly, pulling back. Full lips swollen, Tom could only imagine what his own looked like. There was a high blush on Chris’s cheeks, eyes wide with lust. “Tom, I haven’t fucked anyone in a long time. I’m going to fuck you now. Hard.”

Tom nodded, nails digging into Chris’s neck. “Yes, Daddy. Please, I’m ready.”

“Fuck,” Chris whispered, slotting their mouths together again and pulling Tom back from the door. Carrying him down the short hallway to the only bedroom, they fell onto the bed, Chris’s bulk forcing the air from Tom’s lungs. Tom bounced right into Chris’s embrace again, moaning into his mouth, Chris impatient with his clothes. Tom toed off his shoes and Chris yanked Tom’s jacket off, nearly tearing his shirt off his head. Chris’s room was dark, the bed sitting low to the ground. A flat screen TV hung from the wall, a small dresser with a lamp just off to the side. A blue blanket was tacked over the window, and there was a door in the corner leading to what Tom believed might be the master bathroom. Chris flicked the lamp on and golden light cast over them both.

Taking a moment to stare at him, Chris eyed his chest and torso, the flat plane of his belly, his narrow hips and lean limbs. Burning red, Tom was about to cross his arms to hide himself when Chris smacked one away lightly.

“Don’t hide yourself from me. Daddy wants to see you.”

Tom moaned and felt his cock leak at those words.

When Chris finally pulled off Tom’s jeans, he froze again. “Oh, shit,” he murmured, touching the edge of the purple lace over the sharp point of Tom’s hipbone. “Do you wear these all the time?”

“O-only sometimes,” Tom said quietly, feeling exposed and vulnerable in that strange room.

“Sometimes, huh. Why’s that?” Chris asked, bending low, running the tip of his nose along Tom’s navel, lips just barely skimming the lace, heightening his senses like a hurricane. And then the tip of a tongue drew a long line down his cock, the lace soaking up both saliva and pre-come. Tom drew in a shaky breath, head lifted to see it all.

“B-because I only have one pair and I d-don’t want to wear them out.”

“Wear them out…what?” Chris whispered.

“Wear them out, _Daddy_ ,” Tom sighed, feeling as if his very spirit were floating somewhere near the moon.

“Fuck, I love it when you say that.” Slipping his thick fingers under the lace, Chris pulled the panties off, letting them trail over Tom’s legs. Tom lifted his hips and Chris let them fall from his ankles, balling them up in a fist and bringing them to his face. He breathed in deep and groaned, Tom watching with heavy lashes, not quite believing how aroused that made him.

“I’m your Daddy, right, baby?

“Yes,” Tom panted, reaching up both arms.

Chris fell into them, still clothed, still burning beneath the material. Tom tugged at the button of his jeans.

“Please. I want to see you.”

“Okay, baby,” Chris said, rocking on him for a moment. Tom nearly sobbed. He was so close, he couldn’t take it. Chris kissed him once, fast and hard, Tom tracing his stubble—practically a beard—with the trembling tips of his fingers.

Standing, Chris removed his pants first, Tom rising on his elbows to watch, eyes widening at his long, muscled legs. A tattoo of a feather-haloed skull flexed on his right thigh, a lit cigarette dangling from its toothy grin. When he took his shirt off, Tom’s mouth fell open. Both arms were completely covered in sleeve tattoos that went from shoulder to wrist. There were the skulls, smoke, and blades from when Tom had first seen the tattoos at the prison, but shirtless he was granted the full picture. The biggest skull was drawn over the left arm, wrapped in two thick bands of barbed wire. It wore a feathered headdress and a garland of wilting roses beneath its jaws. His right arm was topped by the pointed peaks of black pine trees, bleeding black into the rest of the sleeve, which featured flying crows, a full-lipped mouth colored red, and tiny little lines, as if the skin were cracking, ready to burst forth from the inside.

“Turn, Daddy,” Tom whispered, and Chris smiled. Still wearing his boxers, he held out both arms and spun slowly.

One side of his waist featured an angel with sword poised, its wings thrust forward to slow its descent. The other side of his waist made Tom gasp. All of the tattoos were done beautifully, but this one was so life-like that it appeared as if Chris’s skin was torn and bleeding, ragged around the edges, and just beneath that were the tiny letters of some ancient kind of paper. Finally, his back was facing Tom and he sat up on his knees at the edge of the bed to see it better. He touched his broad shoulders, letting his thumbs trace over the words inked across the top of his spine.

“And Death Trembled,” he whispered, eyes falling lower, where Chris’s entire back was inked black and down the middle, done in remarkable shading of beige and white was the backbone, each vertebrae outlined and jutting to the sides, throwing a macabre sort of shadow into the background.

“Daddy…”

Chris turned and Tom gazed at him, amazed with his daring art, his strong body like a canvas on which he etched what was important to him, what he thought was beautiful. And they were beautiful, so stunning, that Tom felt his cock pulse heavily and he knew he was seconds from bursting. He rubbed his face over the skull on his left arm, skin so smooth where he might expect rough bone and the tease of feathers.

His voice high, fingers gripping Chris hard, he pleaded. “Please, Daddy, touch me.”

Chris must have read Tom’s desperation. He wrapped an arm around Tom’s back and simply cupped Tom’s cock, feather light, and Tom came hard. He bucked and Chris wrapped him tighter, rubbing his pulsing cock with a tight fist, whispering filthy encouragements in his ear. Tom whimpered and pressed his face to his neck.

“There’s my boy. You’re so fucking beautiful, Tom. Let it all go. I want all of it.”

Tom continued spilling, long ribbons spinning up between their bellies.

“Daddy,” he panted over and over, a hand curled in Chris’s hair, feeling as if he might fall off the edge of the earth.

Very carefully, Chris laid him back down on the bed.

Tom felt stifled by the heat of the room, sweat beading on his collarbones. He blinked numbly. The slow whirr of the ceiling fan, Chris moving just out of sight, the streak of light filtering in from behind the blue blanket, Tom absorbed it all, half conscious, so boneless, lying limp on that low bed. On his skin, his cum was drying, still warm, but he was too spent to touch it.

Chris rustled around for something out of his line of sight. Dazed, Tom panted, heart racing, cock still jumping in the afterglow. His body convulsed and he made a small noise, unable to control the waves of pleasure still flowing through him.

“I’m here, baby. Daddy’s here.” Chris appeared above him, naked and wearing a condom. Tom gaped at him, trying to see through the mist in his eyes. Standing erect, Chris’s penis was not as long as Tom’s, but thick and veined with a gathering of dark blond hair at the base. Balls heavy and hanging, Chris crowded between Tom’s legs, spreading them, pulling him closer by the hips.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, soaking in every detail of Tom’s groin. But then he paused, leaning in close.

“Why are your knees scraped, babe?”

“Huh?” Tom lifted his head, still not fully present.

“Your knees. And your palms,” Chris said, lifting one of his hands to examine it. “Why are they scraped?”

“Oh,” Tom said, gulping. “I…uh…”

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Tom?”

There was something stern in that voice that Tom secretly loved and dreaded. “Jeff caught me in the backyard. Tried to…force himself on me. But I got away. I jumped the back wall and landed in the alley. Cut myself. I stayed in the park bathroom until midnight and then went home.”

The room was dark, but not enough that Tom missed the anger blooming over Chris’s face, the furrowed brow, the clenched teeth, full lips parted, the slight tightening of his hands on Tom’s thighs.

“I—I don’t want to talk about it,” Tom said quietly, turning his head to the side.

But long fingers took his chin and brought it back, blue eyes hooded.

“Okay, baby. We won’t talk about it.” He braced his weight on Tom, crushing him slowly under his body, pressing him into the mattress, and kissed him. Slow and full of tongue, lips bruising and burning, the bristles of his beard rubbing Tom’s chin.

“I’m your Daddy now. I’ll take care of you. Protect you. Keep you safe. No one will touch you again.”

Tears flooded Tom’s eyes and he scrunched them tight, some escaping to soak into his hair.

And then a finger pressed over his hole and he gasped.

“Shh, baby, it’s alright. Hold still for me.”

He wrapped Tom close to him with one arm, the other stretched down between his legs.

“Gonna open up that pretty little hole of yours. So pink and tiny.”

Tom’s head fell back, dizzy. He clutched at Chris, one arm on his back, spread over that amazing tattoo, the spinal cord lit from the side as if by candlelight.

One finger, two fingers, three. Tom trembled through the stretching, Chris kissing his temples, his wet lashes, his lips, shushing him gently, telling him not to cry, that he would take care of him.

And when Chris crawled on top, Tom’s legs fell open wide, skimming both hands over his waist, the dark tattoos swirling in the stilted light. Guiding himself in, Chris kept his gaze low to where the blunt, wide head of his cock started to breach him.

Tom winced, tensing up.

“Relax, baby. Breathe for me.” Long strands of hair blocked Chris’s face from him and Tom hurried to smooth them back, needing to see his eyes.

“Daddy,” he sobbed, crying out again when Chris pushed in another inch. “So big. It hurts, Daddy. You’re too big.”

“Give it a minute, baby. You’ll adjust to me. You can take it. I know you can.”

Another push and Tom grunted, frozen, teeth clenched.

Chris took his face in both hands. “Breathe.”

Tom shook his head. Not breathing felt better.

“Tom. I told you to breathe.”

He exhaled, sobbing out his pain.

“You won’t fit,” he whispered, feeling like a metal pipe was pushing into his intestines.

“I will. Take it. Take what I give you.”

And by patient prodding, Chris finally rooted himself, their pelvises touching, feeling heavy inside him. Tom shook, weeping quietly, nails dug in so deep into Chris’s back. Chris waited, breathing harshly, supporting himself on arms hard with strain.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered. “It’ll stop hurting soon. I promise. Let your little cunt adjust to me.”

Tom breathed in and stuttered his breaths out. But Chris was right. After a few long moments, while he looked on with gritted teeth, sweat dripping onto Tom’s chest, Tom felt the muscle around his hole give and soften around Chris, still wrapped tight, but less painful.

“I’m gonna move,” Chris warned, and Tom nodded. Planting a wide palm on the back of Tom’s thighs, Chris bent him double. “You’re so fucking flexible. Shit.”

Tom blushed and smiled shakily, vision still blurry with tears.

Chris pulled out halfway and pushed in, repeating it again and again. Before Tom knew it, he was drawing back to the tip of his cock and slamming in, body rocking violently beneath him.

“Yeah, baby. Such a sweet little pussy. Take my cock. It’s yours.”

Tom reached again and Chris fell forward, locking their lips, swallowing his tiny yelps. With every thrust, Tom cried out. The pain was still present, but greatly lessoned. Instead, there was a jab of pleasure with every thrust, like a spark deep within him and he wiggled his hips, trying to snatch it and keep it going.

“Eager little boy, are you?”

“Uh-huh,” Tom moaned, cheeks pink, lashes soaked.

“My little boy. You’re mine.”

“Yours, Daddy,” Tom whispered, nodding. He took Chris’s cheeks and pulled him in for more kisses, their lips smacking loudly.

“Such good boy pussy,” Chris groaned, leaning up a bit and watching where he disappeared into Tom. “So good and tight. So fucking tight. I used to imagine this after we met. How tight you would be. I wasn’t wrong. _Fuck_.” He grimaced, hips moving faster.

Heavy against his belly, Tom’s cock stirred again, his desire no longer dampened by pain and discomfort. He was being fucked good and hard, stuffed with thick cock, every vein and that bulbous head dragging over his inner walls, sparking that spark again, blinding Tom with need.

“Daddy, th-that…what is that?”

“What’s what, baby?”

“I can feel it. Inside.” He winced, back arching. “There! Fuck, Daddy.”

“Such a filthy mouth. Only for me, okay? No filthy mouth for anyone else.”

Tom nodded, curls drenched with sweat. “Yes, Daddy.” Chris kept moving, sitting up on his knees, taking Tom’s hips and gripping them hard to bruise. Sprawled out before him, Tom felt weightless as Chris rolled hips as easily as a doll’s, sinking into him again and again.

Grunting, sweat poured from Chris’s face, shining on his body. Tom trailed his hand down his chest, slick and moist. And then the sparks again and Tom shrieked, head thrown back.

“Found it,” Chris grinned. “That’s your prostate, baby. Hold on.”

Angling himself right, Chris fucked into him, their hips slapping together. Tom rocked, blinded by white dots, spine bowed over the mattress.

“Daddy…can I…?” he mumbled, hand starting to reach for his cock.

“No,” Chris said, and Tom’s hand shot back to the mattress. “You’ll come from this.”

Just a handful of thrusts later and Tom did come, screaming into the small room, hot air swirled only by the lazy ceiling fan above them. He pulsed and a stream of cum poured from his straining cock, landing on his own chest and neck. 

“Fuck yes,” Chris groaned, watching him fall into the dizzying pool of orgasm. Frantic now, Chris gripped his hips and pounded in hard, Tom’s tears blurring his sight again. Over-sensitized, Chris’s onslaught was bordering on painful, but he didn’t have to wait long.

Chris pulled out in a hurry, yanking off the condom and stroking himself twice before erupting over Tom’s stomach with a loud groan. Creamy cum gushed out, mixing with Tom’s own seed.

“Mine,” Chris gasped, rubbing his climax out.

Tom, arms flopped to the sides, arched his back, better presenting himself to Chris. And then he lifted his hands and touched the hot strings of cum on his body, pooling together in the concave of his chest and belly. Fingertips to the sticky mess, he felt well and truly claimed.

He cast wide eyes at Chris, who sat heaving, hovering over him.

“More,” he said, smiling wide. “Daddy, I want more.”

Blowing a strand of hair out of his face, Chris grinned, exhausted. “You’ll get more, baby. But Daddy needs to rest for a bit.”

He flopped down beside Tom, who lay on his back still, happily smearing their joined spend over his torso.

“It looks good on you,” Chris murmured, watching him through half-closed eyes.

“It means I’m yours,” Tom whispered.

 “All mine,” Chris agreed, pulling Tom close with an arm around his waist. “Let’s sleep for a while.”

“Okay,” Tom sighed, curling up into his side. But he lay awake not ten more minutes before he was rock hard again, shifting impatiently next to Chris.

Chris stirred, still asleep.

“Daddy,” Tom whined, arms tight around him.

“Hmm? What, baby? What is it?”

“I need to come again, Daddy. I’m so hard.”

Chris lifted his head, one eye scrunched open. “How long have we slept?” he rasped.

Tom rutted against Chris’s leg, right against the skull tattoo with the lit cigarette. “Like ten minutes.”

Chris groaned and then started laughing, slow and rumbly. “Fuck, baby. You’re going to kill me.”

Tom giggled and anchored his arms around his neck, drawing Chris onto his side. He threw a leg behind Chris’s back and started humping his thigh, finally finding the friction he needed.

“Oh, Daddy… _yes,_ ” he pleaded.

“Come, baby. You can come.” Tom, relieved, swiveled his hips, delighted to feel the hard curve of Chris’s own cock, awakened. He rutted, urgent and clinging, Chris kissing the sharp line of his jaw.

He came with a yelp, spilling between them. Not a moment later, Chris was standing fast and dragging Tom to the edge of the bed, propping him on all fours.

There was a crinkle of foil and then Chris was pushing in.

"Fuck me, Daddy. Fuck me.”

“Filthy little boy. Your little pussy is greedy for me, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” He was rocking so fast, his arms gave out. He fell to his elbows, the angle letting Chris go deeper. His thrusts were erratic and rough, but Tom’s hole was still stretched out and he took the fucking with better ease than before, crying out from only the pleasure.

Once again, Chris pulled out and disposed of his condom to spill on Tom’s back.

“ _Yes_ ,” Tom breathed, eyes drifting closed. He wanted to be covered in it. “Rub it over me. Please.” He looked at Chris over his shoulder, and Chris did as he asked, smoothing out his cum over Tom’s shoulders and spine.

"My little boy, my good boy” he whispered, taking Tom’s hips and, with no penetration, slamming hard against his ass, smacking their genitals together.

They slept again. Curled into the hollow space beneath Chris, Tom didn’t wake in the middle of the night, didn’t startle from sleep wondering if he heard footsteps outside his door, if his knob was turning slowly, cowering against his pillows until he had assured himself it was only the old house settling. His sleep was deep and empty, like being sunk into a cool earthen hole, the wide yawning sky above him with its twinkling stars keeping their comforting vigil.

**

Tom lay awake the next morning, wondering if his mother was worried about where he was. In all probability, as she often did, she’d fallen asleep and left for work this morning without checking whether he was even home. Jeff would wonder, though. Jeff would look for him. Or wait for him.

Beside him, Chris snored lightly, his big arm thrown across Tom’s chest. All over his front and back, Tom’s skin stretched tight, the dried cum flaking but he hardly noticed. Instead, he touched the tattoos drawn on that sculpted arm, careful with worship, loving the minute details, the colors and the great fear in them, the danger. His touch must have tickled because Chris woke up, grumbling about the early hour.

“Does it feel different,” Tom asked, turning in his arms and running his fingers through the buzzed part of Chris’s hair. “Sleeping in this bed versus the one in prison.”

“Mmph,” Chris agreed, eyes closed again. “Definitely. I had back problems my first year there. I couldn’t get used to the pile of cotton they give you for a mattress. Now I figure I could sleep on a dirt floor and not be bothered.”

Tom watched him, loving the small ways his face moved when he talked. “How long were you in there?”

“Six years.”

Tom gasped. “So long?”

“My original sentence was for three. But I had to get into fights at the beginning. Keep up my rep. It’s all a man has in there.”

“My darling,” Tom whispered, already imagining the violence, the blood and injuries. It sent a tiny thrill through his body, at imagining Chris so unhinged, all that strength let loose, the damage he could cause.

“Have you ever killed someone? Like broken someone’s neck or stabbed them?”

Chris chuckled. “No. I’ve never killed anyone. And breaking someone’s neck is a hard thing to do. Takes a lot of emotion. A lot of passion to see the act through.”

Tom nodded and cuddled closer. Chris kissed his forehead.

“And did you get any tattoos in prison?”

“Fuck no,” Chris said, making a face. “I did nothing that would risk getting some kind of infection.”

“That’s good,” Tom agreed.

“I know you’re probably wondering about any sex diseases. Or blood diseases. I have none, okay? I got tested about a month before being released. It’s all part of the paperwork. And I’m clean.”

“Oh,” Tom said. “Then why the condom?”

Chris drew back to look at him. “To make you feel comfortable.”

“I don’t want to use them,” Tom decided, circling one of Chris’s nipples with a finger.

Chris held still, surprised. “Okay. That’s fine with me.” He laughed and they fell silent, the soft light of dawn beginning to creep in behind the blue blanket.

“So, babe. What does Jeff do for a living?”

Tom tensed, and started to pull away. But Chris tightened his arms, trapping him.

“Answer me.”

Tom bit his lip. “He calls me a piece of shit,” he said quietly. “I don’t like talking about him.”

Chris bent low and laid soft kisses on Tom’s hairline. “I know, baby. But, please answer my question.”

Tom sighed. “He travels around the state. Selling some kind of computer program.”

“Is he home today?”

“Maybe. Mom won’t be. She takes the day shifts on Saturdays. But sometimes he goes to a bar on the east side. Something called Dragon Eggs.”

“Dragon Eyes?” Chris said.

“Yes. That’s it.”

Chris pondered. “Good,” he murmured. “That’s real good.” Tom looked at him in question. “Let’s shower and I’ll take you for breakfast.”

Tom showered alone in the master bath, the stall tiny and low. He wasn’t sure how Chris fit in that little space, but Tom was content to have some alone time after Chris had wandered into the kitchen to look for his phone.

Chris’s soap smelled of pines. He was sad to see their cum wash down the drain, but it left his skin so soft and clear. Still sore from fucking, Tom cleaned gingerly between his cheeks, wincing. In the foggy mirror, he shaved his face carefully, applying some of Chris’s soothing lotion after. After brushing his teeth with Chris's white toothbrush, he put on the same clothes sans underwear, as Chris had kept his purple panties and put them somewhere safe. Outside the bathroom door, Chris had left a bottle of water and two pain reliever pills. Tom smiled and tossed them back gratefully.

As Chris showered, Tom sat in his living room, fingering through the various magazines, face blazing at the naked women. Pussies shaved clean, they stared at the camera, legs splayed wide and inviting. Tom wondered if he should shave his balls, but felt lazy about all the trouble. If Chris wanted it, he would. As it was, he loved when Chris called Tom’s hole his pussy, his cunt, and thought that next time he would remember to bring his lip gloss.

Back in the garage, Chris rummaged around a cabinet and produced a scuffed and worn helmet. It was full-sized with a jaw protector and visor that came down over the eyes, so black one couldn’t see in.

He presented it to Tom. “For you. It used to be mine. My first one, actually. But I’ve stopped wearing them.”

Tom took it, careful with how he held it. “For me?”

“Yeah. Put it on.”

Tom did. It fit snug, but comfortably, and the visor guarded from glare and bright sunlight.

“But why don’t you wear one?”

His voice came out muffled and Chris smiled, looking ten shades darker behind the visor.

“Because I feel it blocks my vision.”

“Why do I have to wear it?”

“Because you’re more important. Come on.” He threw on some Aviators and led Tom back across the dusty yard to the Harley they rode in on and he climbed on behind Chris. With the helmet, he was unable to rest his head on Chris’s back, and he shared his disappointment.

“I’ll hold you again soon, silly boy. For now, safety.”

Tom huffed and sat straight in the seat, wrapping his arms around Chris’s waist.

They drove through the streets. Tom felt more freedom in where he could look. The helmet offered him anonymity, as well as protection from the deafening winds. Chris was quite the sight on the motorcycle, Tom was pleased to see. Most drivers stared after them as they roared past, Tom smiling wide.

Chris pulled in to a diner—not the one his mother worked at, thank goodness—and they sat in a corner booth. Tom propped the menu open in front of him while Chris lit a cigarette, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling, where a blue haze hovered.

"What can I get?" Tom asked, eyes zipping up and down the columns of food listed.

"Anything you want, babe," Chris said. He scooted close and pointed to number six. "I always get that. Haven't had it in years. Literally."

Tom smiled, reading aloud, "Four pancakes, three eggs, three sausages and hash browns." His eyes widened. "That's a lot of food, Daddy."

Chris laughed and ruffled his hair affectionately. "I'm a lot of man."

Tom blushed, his foot nudging Chris's like they used to do back at the prison.

Chris leveled him with a heated gaze just as the waitress approached. In the end, Chris ordered the number six with coffee—black, no sugar—and Tom ordered a plate of French toast with powdered sugar, a vanilla milkshake, a bowl of fruit, and two eggs with sausage.

"Anything else, honey?" the waitress said, gathering their menus.

"Nope," Tom said, grinning, cheeks pink with excitement. He took Chris’s hand under the table once she’d left. "I can't remember the last time I ate out."

"You're such a sweet kitten," Chris murmured, tapping his cigarette in the ashtray.

When their food arrived, Tom's eyes widened and he dug right in, hunkering over his food, elbows out. He scooped forkful after forkful into his mouth, eyes closing in bliss. Chris watched him, cutting into his own pancakes slowly.

"You know you don't have to eat in a hurry around me, right?"

Tom froze, cheeks full. "Wha?"

Chris smiled and touched his thigh. "No one's going to hurt you here mid meal. You can take your time."

Tom swallowed, and then took a sip from his milkshake. "I didn't realize I was doing it."

"It's okay, baby. I just don't want you to make yourself sick."

They finished their meal in companionable silence, Tom practically bouncing from enjoyment of his food. Afterward, so full and sleepy, he got on the bike behind Chris, helmet locked in, eyes dancing over the bleak desert land.

It became apparent they were heading east when Tom saw the city’s downtown skyline start to fade behind them. The parking lot at the Dragon Eyes was half full. Chris pulled into the back, parking the bike by the service entrance. He lifted the visor on Tom’s helmet and stuck his thumb in to stroke the ridge of his cheek.

“Keep it on. I’ll be right back.”

Sitting on the bike, Tom watched Chris disappear in through the employee entrance. A hot wind howled around him, burning his retinas. He closed the visor and felt submerged into a strange kind of silence, like he was in outer space wearing an anti-gravity suit. From this vantage point, there wasn’t a soul in sight, only more desert stretching out behind the bar. He spotted a runty coyote stalking along the fence, eyes sharp on the dumpsters.

After a minute, Chris came back out and lit up a smoke. He leaned casually against the wall, just to the side of the door, holding up a hand to let Tom know to stay put.

Tom gulped, starting to get an uneasy feeling in his gut. He shifted on the leather seat, bottom still aching despite the pills. When the door opened again, it hid Chris from view. He quietly set his lit cigarette on the top of the flat rail leading up to the door and straightened.

Out of the open door came Jeff, shading his eyes and talking with someone. Catching sight of Tom on the lone bike, he stalled.

He knows it’s me, Tom thought. But there was no way he could. His helmet concealed his face.

“Hey, who did you say—,” Jeff started, turning back to the man who had led him outside. But the man avoided all eye contact and simply closed the door, locking him out. Before Jeff could see Chris, Chris stepped up behind him and grabbed a handful of his hair, slamming him face first into the brick wall.

Jeff screamed and crumpled at Chris’s feet. He grabbed his face with both hands, thick blood pouring from in between.

Tom gasped, not quite believing what he’d just seen. He jumped up, leaning forward on the bike, hands coming up to wrap around the handles.

In the shadow of the dirty bar, Chris walked a circle around Jeff, who was sobbing and crying out brokenly. And then he squatted beside him, boots crunching loudly, wrapping a big hand around the back of the struggling man’s neck.

“Hey,” he said. “Shut up. Take a look at that kid over there,” he said, pointing at Tom. Chris winked at him, and Tom felt his heart skip a beat. In his jeans, his cock tightened. “Take it off, baby. Just for a minute.”

With shaking hands, Tom lifted off the helmet, the hot desert sun blinding him. But Jeff’s panicked eyes settled on him, and they narrowed in anger. He started to rise, but Chris yanked him back down, hand tightening on his neck.

“Hey, I didn’t say you could fucking move. Now, listen to me,” Chris said, shifting to squat down in front of him, blocking him from Tom’s view entirely. Jeff was still sobbing wetly, even in all his rage, nose broken horribly. “You know Tom. He lives with you. But Tom is mine. And it’s come to my attention that you’ve been touching what is mine. And not even just a friendly pat on the back or a nice hug. Those things I understand. But you’ve been beating on my boy here, trying to force that crooked dick of yours into him, and that’s just not acceptable. At all.”

Bending, Chris took Jeff’s throat with one hand. Jeff started struggling again, legs kicking, but one hard press into his jugular and Jeff fell limp, breathing heavy through his mouth. Blood poured sluggishly from both nostrils.

Tom stared, amazed at the crackling energy rolling off Chris despite all his dead calm. All low brows and flared nose, Chris glared coldly down at Jeff, holding him still with one hand. With his other hand, he reached for Jeff’s left arm.

“What are you doing?” Jeff wheezed, eyes darting frantically from Chris and to his arm and back again. “I—I won’t touch the kid again, alright! Just—just leave me alone!”

“See,” Chris said, tilting his head to the side. “That’s just not gonna cut it for me. You’re the absolute worst kind of filth in my eyes and I just don’t trust the words of a piece of shit like you.”

Jeff’s eyes widened and they cut to Tom, who stood straddling the bike, chest rising with quick breaths, helmet clutched in trembling hands.

Very slowly, Chris began angling Jeff’s arm behind his back, the position awkward and unnatural. The more Jeff struggled, the harder Chris squeezed his neck, until his eyes were bulging and he was flopping helplessly on the glass-strewn concrete, like some gutted and desperate fish. Arm positioned, he pressed Jeff flat on his back with a boot on his twisted shoulder.

Tom strained to hear Chris’s whispers.

“You’re not going to touch him again.” He began pressing his boot down. “You’re not going to speak to him again unless done so civilly.” Jeff heaved under the boot, face twisting in pain. “And you will definitely no longer call him any names, like faggot or fairy or piece…” Jeff’s shoulder shook violently, pushed to the point of natural resistance, his other bloodied hand scrabbling desperately at Chris’s jeans. “…of…” Chris smiled, leg bending at the knee as he leaned all of his weight on it. “… _shit_ …” There was that point where Jeff’s eyes landed on Tom just behind Chris, so swollen with fear and pain, Tom doubted Jeff was able to see anything at all.

“No! No, no, no, _please—.”_

 And then Chris lifted his boot and slammed it down hard.

The bone broke loudly, making Tom jump from his perch on the motorcycle. In the dry air of that hot September afternoon, Jeff screamed, voice gurgling with blood from his shattered nose. Arm bent behind him, he kicked and rolled, gutted cries screamed into the cracked pavement. Chris walked around the flailing man. He picked up his cigarette and took a long drag. Across the way, his and Tom’s eyes met and Tom felt his erection press painfully against the tight weave of his jeans.

“Daddy,” he whispered, in complete awe, and Chris smiled, smoke curling out between his teeth.

He walked back to Jeff and nudged his jaw with the toe of his boot, arm still trapped beneath him. Just that small movement had Jeff howling again, but weakly, strength sapped.

“Next time, it’s going to be your leg. Or your pelvis. Or your jaw. Something important like that. Touch him again and I’ll pay you another visit. I trust you have enough sense not to tell the cops.” He clapped a wide palm to Jeff’s neck, as if they were old buddies, and then felt around in his back pockets. Pulling out a faded leather wallet, Chris smiled his thanks and stood.

Sticking the cigarette between his lips, he returned to Tom’s side and blew out the smoke. Bending, he caught Tom’s mouth in a hard kiss. When they parted, Tom was breathless and so painfully hard, he couldn’t move his legs. Chris took him by the waist and lifted him to his seat, sliding in front of him. He started the bike, the rumble loud and starting to feel like the most familiar thing in the world to Tom. Putting his helmet back on, he snuggled against Chris’s back and they drove out into the street, bypassing the side of the bar, where a man lay broken and bleeding, crying softly into the burning wind, never to hurt Tom again.

**

Before heading into the house, Chris hunched over a small fire behind his garage and piece by piece burned the wallet and all that came with it, including the money and receipts and coupons and driver’s license.

“It’ll be reported as a mugging at the hospital,” Chris murmured to Tom, who stood just behind him, eyes squinting in the acrid smoke. Afterward, he tamped down on the flames with his boot, the remnants of Jeff’s wallet disintegrated to ash.

Inside the house, he washed his hands and eyed Tom, who trailed him from room to room. He finally crowded him against the kitchen wall, smothering him with kisses, hands roaming over his body, murmuring if he was okay.

Tom nodded and returned his kisses, hips rolling forward.

“No one’s gonna hurt you again,” Chris groaned, mouthing at Tom’s neck. “They will feel worse pain. I promise you.”

He flipped Tom and then dragged down his jeans.

“Open your mouth,” he whispered, and Tom did. Chris slid two fingers inside. “Suck on them.”

Wetting them with his eager tongue, Tom moaned around the thick digits, sucking them hard. Chris pulled them away, dripping, and pressed them to Tom’s hole. The stretching was easy, but it still burned without the lubricant they’d used the night before.

“Can you take me?” Chris asked, breath hot on Tom’s neck.

Tom hesitated. “Yes, Daddy.”

Chris paused. “What is it, baby?”

“It...it hurts a little bit, Daddy.”

Full lips nuzzled at his temple, and Tom let out a shaky breath, afraid he’d disappointed Chris.

“Let’s go to the room, then.”

Tom turned, allowing Chris to pull up his pants. “You’re not mad at me, Daddy?”

Chris looked at him, eyes crinkling with memory. “No, baby. I’m not mad at you.” He took Tom’s face in both hands. “I remember when you asked me that before. Back at the prison. You worry about making me angry?"

Tom shrugged, looking down. "I feel like I disappoint a lot of people. And I don't want to disappoint you."

"Baby," Chris sighed, bending low and scooping Tom up in to his arms. Tom held tight to his neck, kissing Chris's jaw, his ear, his temple.

Sitting carefully at the edge of the bed, Chris cuddled him close, their kisses turning urgent. Tom's mouth was still sticky and sweet from breakfast and Chris moaned, hand cupping his ass, squeezing. When he broke away, Tom lay heavily against him, eyes glazed.

"Why did you lie to Daddy?" Chris asked, rubbing a circle over Tom's ass.

Confused for a moment, Tom blinked. He'd never lied to him. But then he remembered, just now in the kitchen, telling Chris he could take him without lube. Tears rising, Tom hiccupped. “I—I didn’t mean to lie. I just want to be a good boy to you.”

“I know, baby. And you are the best little boy. I can’t fucking get enough of you,” Chris whispered, pulling Tom closer. “But I think I need to give you a spanking. To teach you a lesson.”

Tom froze, recalling Jeff threatening him with the same thing. But his pulse jumped at finally being able to feel what those guys in his online videos felt, and at Chris's hands, it would be just as he imagined it.

"Okay, Daddy," he whispered, cupping Chris's cheek, thumb rasping over his stubble. "I'm sorry."

"Shh," Chris soothed, guiding Tom to stand and undoing his jeans again. Tom pulled off his shirt and stood naked before him, biting his lip and resisting the urge to fidget under Chris’s appraising stare.

“Come here,” Chris asked gently, patting his lap. Trembling, Tom draped himself over Chris’s knees, his belly and chest supported. A warm hand ran over his ass, which was jutted up invitingly. Tom grasped Chris’s leg, whimpering into the mattress. “It’s alright. Just a few. You can take a few for Daddy, right?”

“Yes, I’m a good boy.”

“You are a good boy. You’re my little boy.”

And then he brought his hand down, the smack loud and jarring. Tom gasped, bucking. 

“Easy,” Chris murmured. Another smack, this time on the other cheek. Tom jumped and clung to Chris, breathing fast.

With one hand holding him by the neck, the other landed on his sore bottom again and again. Legs splayed out, Tom felt on fire, his skin beginning to burn, to buzz. His soft cries turned into a desperate weeping, the slaps to his skin vibrating with pain, but his cock was a swollen rod against Chris’s thigh.

“Daddy, please!” Tom cried out brokenly, having lost count of the number of spanks, but he trembled with fatigue, tears pouring down his face. His cock throbbed mercilessly, and he didn’t know if he loved the pain or hated it.

Chris groaned and rubbed his red skin, Tom wincing from the sensitivity. But against Tom’s belly, he felt the hard ridge of Chris’s erection and smiled, overjoyed and relieved that Chris was pleased with him. Chris stood and Tom ended up on his back, lying flat on the bed, Chris covering him completely.

“Thank you, baby. Thank you. You were wonderful. Such an obedient little boy.”

Tom sobbed, his tears kissed away by Chris, who cradled his face with soft nuzzles.

When Chris lifted away, Tom stayed put, wiping at his tears, legs clamped shut. But then Chris was back, and his fingers were slick with lube and he pushed them into Tom, who grunted softly.

“Better, baby?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

This time, when Chris pushed in, Tom’s legs wrapped up around his waist, there was no condom. Only the hot slippery press of Chris’s naked cock, silky smooth and thicker than ever.

“You have the prettiest little ass. It bounces so nicely.”

Tom ducked his head, feeling the blush creep up his neck. “Thank you, Daddy.”

Chris gathered him up and pounded in, tongue delving into Tom’s mouth, slow and easy. Tom’s bottom burned from the spanking, but he moaned at the stretch, the pleasure and the pain mixing so deliciously in his blood.

He arched and Chris held him tighter, widening one of Tom's legs with his hand.

"Yes, Daddy," Tom moaned, gripping Chris by the ass. "Fuck my pussy. My tight little cunt. It's yours, Daddy. All yours."

Chris growled and pushed Tom’s legs flat against his chest, bending him double, claiming Tom’s hole with rough thrusts, hips snapping fast. They rocked together, the mattress creaking with their motion. Tom, lost in the great power that was Chris above him, lost track of how long they lay there, rutting and gasping. But his skin was buzzing and he was ready to burst.

He whined and clawed at Chris’s back.

“You don’t disappoint me, Tom,” Chris said softly, hips snapping hard. “Okay? You don’t disappoint me and you’re the sweetest part of me. The only sweet part I have. Don’t be afraid of me.”

Tears blurring his eyes, Tom sobbed quietly, hands hooked under Chris’s shoulders. He shook his head. “I’m not, Daddy. I’m not afraid of you. I love you.”

Chris kissed the tears, smiling. “My baby. I love you, too. Come, Tom. Baby, come now.”

Tom fisted his cock and came with a strangled cry, breath tight in his chest. He spilled on himself, a long stream landing across his mouth. Chris bent and kissed him, lapping up the cum from Tom’s lips, the taste bitter and salty.

Tom loved it.

“I’m coming, baby. Gonna fill you up.”

Tom nodded fast and tilted his hips, and when Chris groaned his release, Tom felt the hot gush of his cum, swearing he could feel his very cock swell with each pulse spurting inside.

His heart raced, Chris gripping his hips and slamming in again, driving his seed deep. Tom’s hands clenched the back of Chris’s thighs.

“Not yet, Daddy,” he pleaded. “Don’t pull out. Stay inside me. Just a while longer.”

Chris trembled above him, panting, long strands of hair falling free.

“Okay,” he rasped, grimacing as he relaxed his weight on Tom’s body, so slender and lovely beneath his.

He went soft, but their hips were so flush, he stayed snug inside. Head tucked into Tom’s neck, Chris dozed. Tom carded his fingers through Chris’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp through his buzzed hair, so that Chris practically purred.

After some time, Tom blinked and yawned. Chris had slipped out, but was still lying over him, heavy and asleep.

Tom tried taking a deep breath, but his chest felt too constricted with the weight.

“Daddy,” he wheezed, pushing halfheartedly at Chris’s chest. Chris groaned.

A deep rumbling came from the street outside and Tom froze, head cocked to listen. When the noise became louder, Chris jerked awake.

“I think someone’s here, Daddy,” Tom whispered.

Chris peered down at him and then glanced around the room with one eye open.

“Fuck, it’s the guys.”

Tom frowned. “Guys?”

Chris climbed off of him and shrugged into his jeans. Tom wrapped the sheet around himself.

“From the group I ride with.” He slipped on a shirt. “They’ll only be here a little while, babe. You can sleep some more if you want to.”

Tom nodded and leaned up as Chris bent to kiss him. He closed the door quietly behind himself and went to greet his friends. Tom fell back against the pillows and curled onto his side, his bottom sore from the spanking and the fucking. He smiled, feeling superbly sated.

He must have slept because when he woke to the feel of a finger trailing over his arm, the light was different in the room—late afternoon, probably—and there was someone standing over him.

“Mm, Daddy,” he mumbled, not fully conscious.

“Sure, if you’d like,” said the voice, higher than Chris’s, and much older.

Tom’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, scrambling up and crowding against the headboard, sheet clutched tight over his chest.

A man stood beside the bed, tall and old enough to be Tom’s father. Skin like worn leather and sporting a grey goatee, the man held unnervingly still, hands open at his sides, blue eyes like crystal as they stared at Tom.

“Who are you?” Tom asked, finally finding his voice.

“Your…daddy?” the man answered, and then bent double, cackling loudly. “Boy, you look like a tiny little lamb, all frightened of the slaughter.”

Tom gulped, eyes darting over the room. Chris. Where was Chris?

“I’m Mick,” the man said. “And you are?”

Tom kept quiet, the name clicking in his memory. This was the man whose orders Chris had obeyed, the orders that got him thrown in jail for six years. This was the leader of their motorcycle gang.

But then the floor creaked behind them and they both turned.

Chris stood there with one hand on the doorknob, eyes wide on Tom before flicking over to Mick.

“There you are,” Mick said. “I needed to piss. One in the hall is stuffed with something.”

Chris said nothing. He stepped further into the room and came to stand between Tom and Mick, who smiled and shrugged. “Anyway, ran into the boy. Certainly wasn’t expecting someone to be here. Quite the looker, ain’t he?”

Chris’s jaw clenched. “We heard you drive up. When you didn’t show out back, I came to see if everything was…alright.” He looked between him and Tom, nostrils flaring slightly. Chris was angry, and Tom more than knew what he was capable of.

Mick nodded and moved around the bed to the bathroom. “Yeah, yeah. All’s fine. Just have to take a piss. I’ll be out in a minute.” He closed the door and Tom took a shaky breath. Chris’s hand reached back to him, eyes still on the bathroom door. Tom took his hand and squeezed.

“Are you okay?” Chris whispered.

Tom nodded, heart still pounding. “He scared me.”

Chris knelt fast. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t think he’d come in the house.”

The toilet flushed and then Mick was opening the door. “Bring the boy to the bonfire next week, Christopher.” He smiled, nodding at Tom, and then walked out of the room, his whistling fading down the hall.

Chris and Tom looked at each other. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.

**

Tom stayed in Chris’s room for a while longer after Chris went out back again. He could hear men laughing and talking loudly, but couldn’t make anything out. He took a slow shower and rubbed lotion over his limbs, and after, he sat curled up in bed watching a documentary about the ant kingdom.

A thunder of roaring engines sounded suddenly from outside and he jumped up, tiptoeing down the hall to the front window in the living room.

Chris was standing at the start of his dirt road as about twenty motorcycles charged past him and into the shimmering desert. The sun was bright and dusty, the winds swirling around Chris as he started back up toward the house, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He saw Tom at the window and paused, blowing the white smoke out through the side of his mouth. He smiled, and Tom remembered how Chris had looked just after beating Jeff, not a speck of blood on him, the man lying wrecked at his feet and the crunch of bone still a sharp echo on wind.

Tom put his hand against the windowpane, and smiled back.

**

Before taking him home, Chris pulled into a phone store and parked the bike in the shade of the building.

“What are we doing here?” Tom asked, tugging off his helmet. He left it on the seat of the bike and followed Chris inside.

But Tom didn’t need an answer, because after only twenty minutes they were back outside, fiddling with the new phone Chris had just bought for him.

“Chris, this is…too much! I couldn’t—.”

“You can,” Chris said, leaning against his bike, shades reflecting Tom’s shocked face right back at him. “I want you to have one. I want to be able to get ahold of you. And you to have a way to get ahold of me. When you need me.”

Tom wiped at the screen with his thumb, mouth hanging open. The screen was smooth as silk, with a starry background and apps that danced when he shifted them around. He’d never had a cell phone before. Everyone at school had one, fingers dancing quick over the bright screens, earphones plugged in, yapping into the tiny receivers. He’d barely managed to convince his mother to get him a computer, and it was a cheap secondhand laptop that heated up too fast, the battery draining in under an hour.

Tom swallowed and cradled the phone carefully in his hands.

“Thank you, Chris,” he said softly. “This is amazing.”

Chris smiled, rolling a toothpick between his teeth.

“Hey,” he said gently, and hugged Tom to his side. “You ever need anything, you tell me. Okay?”

Tom nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy.”

They exchanged numbers, Tom still in awe about all the apps already installed and those he could download later, all the games and access to the Internet. He gripped it tight, giddy with the knowledge of the sudden freedom he could find in this one small device, the secure and safe line he had to Chris, no matter the time of day.

They hopped on the bike again and Chris turned it south. Phone tucked safely into his jacket, Tom sighed in the quiet bubble of his helmet, the hot desert air stinging him everywhere but his face. Still, tears pricked his vision the closer they got to his house, and he clung to Chris all the harder. Once parked at his curb, Tom kept his eyes shut tight, not wanting to admit that their weekend was over.

“I’ll come back for you,” Chris said quietly, feeling the trembling in Tom’s arms. His hands were curled into his shirt, and he touched them gently.

“I don’t want to,” Tom sniffed, clutching at Chris like a baby monkey.

“He knows better than to try again.”

Gathering himself, Tom nodded and let Chris go, unfolding his legs and setting them on firm ground. He removed his helmet and wiped his eyes. Chris took the helmet and handed Tom the bag with the phone manual and charger.

“Where’s your school?” he asked.

“I go to Saguaro Heights. Over on Glenn.”

Chris laughed. “Really? I went there.”

“You did?” Tom grinned.

“Yeah. For a time. Like twenty years ago,” Chris said, talking around his cigarette. Tom took it from between his lips and brought it to his own, taking a long drag. The pungent smoke filled his lungs and he let it out as smoothly as he could, unable to stop his eyes from watering. He coughed slightly, handing the cigarette back to him.

Chris watched, mouth parted, and closed his eyes when Tom leaned in, kissing him fast.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he whispered, walking backwards up the drive and letting himself in through the front door. Chris stayed out on the street for a minute, looking down at the helmet in his lap. He finally took one last inhale from the cigarette and crushed it under his boot, pulling the helmet on and revving the engine.

Tom’s groin tightened, watching him through the peep hole at the door. Finally resigning himself to the fact that he was gone, Tom sighed and headed to his room, the house feeling too eerie and quiet without Jeff lurking about.

**

Jeff eventually did return to the house later that night. Tom’s mother had been beside herself with worry when she’d returned from work and found Jeff gone. Tom sat in his room sulking, realizing she’d never panicked like that when Tom was gone for hours at a time. Still, he could hear her exclaiming loudly from the front door when Jeff arrived in a taxi, face and arm bandaged.

Curled up in the corner behind his bed, Tom sat playing with his phone plugged in the outlet to charge before sleep, trying to ignore their voices from down the hall.

“What in the world happened, darlin’?”

“I’m alright, Susie. Don’t make a fuss.” His voice was nasally and muffled, and Tom grinned.

“Gone for hours and you don’t want me to make a fuss?”

“I ran into a bit of trouble is all.”

Tom froze, the game on his phone firing fruit cannons all by itself.

“Trouble? What happened?”

Jeff said nothing for a minute and Tom imagined they’d sat at one of the sofas. “I was mugged.”

“Where?”

“At the Dragon Eyes.”

“Oh, Jeff, what were you doing at the Dragon Eyes?”

“Having a goddamn drink, Susie, what do you think?”

Their voices quieted down after that, and Tom gave up trying to eavesdrop. He went back to his game, the screen lighting up his face in the dark room. And then the game paused automatically as a text notification popped up.

“Daddy,” Tom breathed, smiling. He opened the text.

<are you okay?>

He replied quickly.

<yes daddy. Im charging my phone and going to bed>

<you like your phone?>

<I love it! There are so many free games I can get>

<good baby. My sheets still smell of you>

<I miss you already>

<I miss you too.>

<I want to sleep with you every night>

<you will baby. I promise.>

Tom fell asleep with the phone curled up under his chin, ready to feel the tiny vibrations of any new messages.

**

The week passed in a blur. Bobby accosted him in the hallways at school, demanding to know where Tom had been all weekend. Tom, mumbling something about staying overnight with a cousin, ducked into his next class and the subject was dropped.

He and Chris texted all day. Chris, at work at the mechanic’s shop, would message Tom with questions about his day, what he was wearing, if he’d played with himself the night before. All blushes, Tom would hide himself away in the bathroom or behind the bleachers to respond. It wasn’t hard for him to keep quiet about Chris. Even though he was bursting with excitement at having a boyfriend—because that’s what Chris was to him—he also wanted to keep him his own secret for as long as he could. Not that he was ashamed of him. Tom could walk around town kissing Chris all day long if he thought he’d get away with it. But it seemed that everywhere he looked in his school’s hallways, there was some kind of juvenile drama taking place, and here he was, shy and quiet Tom, often bullied and targeted for pranks, getting fucked and bred by a thirty-six year old ex-con. He felt set apart from the rest of his classmates, privileged and special in a way he’d never felt before. He didn’t need any kind of validation from them, these high-schoolers with their Prom and their yearbooks and their college applications. He had Chris’s approval and that’s all that mattered to him.

The morning of the bonfire, Tom was lacing up his sneakers when he heard the roar of a motorcycle from down the street. He jumped up and grabbed his overnight bag, filled with two pairs of jeans, a couple of shirts, underwear and socks, as well as his laptop, phone charger, and the paperback he was reading. In the small pocket, he’d put his nail polishes, and mascara and lip gloss, figuring it was safer to keep them at Chris’s house than in his own room. Having all his favorite things close by gave him comfort, feeling that wherever he was with his bag of special belongings, then he could feel at home.

He’d told his mother he was spending the weekend with Bobby, and he’d told Bobby he was spending the weekend with another cousin, so hopefully both stories played out with little incident. Jeff had been extremely quiet all week, stonily eating dinner with them, refusing to look at Tom, disappearing into his room immediately after. This was just fine with Tom. The less he saw of him, the less chance Jeff would remember how much he hated Tom and try to hit him again.

Checking around his room for anything he missed, Tom climbed out the window and jogged to the street. Chris took off his helmet and passed it to Tom, who put it on and jumped behind him. God, he’d missed that big body, that warmth. His pillows just didn’t compare to the solid mass that was Chris pressed up against him in bed.

Speeding down the dusty streets, heading further and further into the barren desert, Chris finally pulled into his driveway and parked the bike in his garage.

“You came prepared,” Chris chuckled, wrapping Tom under his arm. Tom hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders.

“I did! I brought clothes and some other things.”

“Did you bring underwear?”

They were passing the garden and Tom smiled up at him, confused. “Yes…Why?”

Chris shrugged, fishing out his keys. “Hm. No reason.”

Tom had barely dumped his bag on the couch when Chris was spinning him and kissing him hard, tongue shoving in. They fell onto the sofa, scrabbling for purchase.

His hands worked on Tom’s jeans, yanking them down.

“I slept—fuck, baby, lift your hips—with your panties under my pillow,” he whispered, voice rough.

Tom whined. Chris’s lips latched onto his collarbone. He sucked and bit at the bone, and Tom writhed, held still by big hands. Jeans and boxers stuffed down to his knees, Chris flipped him so he was facedown over the arm of the couch, his ass exposed. A snap as Chris uncapped the lube bottle, and then Tom winced and tried to squirm away, thick fingers probing at his entrance.

“Hold still, baby.”

“Daddy, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. I saved up all my cum for you. Did you touch yourself while you were away?”

Tom shook his head, hands bunched up against his chest. “No, Daddy. It’s not the same as you.”

“Good boy. That’s what I like to hear.”

He fucked him hard against the armrest, fully clothed, Tom’s flesh bouncing, his cries filling the warm room.

“Fuck,” Chris groaned, holding Tom’s hips. “It’s like you got tighter.”

“Give me your cum, Daddy. Please.”

And he filled him up, balls pulsing with every spurt, lasting so long Chris felt faint from the feel of Tom’s tight little cunt soaking it up.

“Daddy,” Tom breathed, lashes trembling. His cheeks were red and he looked barely present, his own cock trapped between the armrest and his belly.

Chris pulled out, delighted to see a stream of cum pour down the milky white skin of Tom’s inner thighs.

“Alright, baby. Come here.” He sat on the couch and brought Tom onto his lap, legs stretched out to the side. Tom looked feverish in his desperation to come, wrapping his arms around Chris’s neck and whimpering. It took only two pumps of Chris’s hand for him to climax, arching in his embrace, spilling over his shirt. “There you are, my lovely boy,” Chris groaned, eyes sharp on the flitting changes of Tom’s face; the parted lips, the high blush, the scrunched brow and half-open eyes. “You’re beautiful, Tom.”

Tom slumped against him, gasping, kissing his neck tenderly.

“Was my pussy good for you, Daddy?”

Chris groaned and pawed at his curls. “The best, babe. Just what I needed after my long week away from you. My angel.”

Tom sighed, glowing under Chris’s longing.

They would have showered together but the stall was too small, so they took turns, eventually falling into bed again, naked.

“I have something for you,” Chris said after a while, stroking Tom’s hip.

Tom’s eyes lit up. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes.”

Tom did, sitting up patiently, grinning. Something was placed before him and then Chris’s voice telling him he could look.

There was a pink and purple bag on the mattress, as well as a large white box.

“Daddy!” He sat up on his knees, his nakedness drawing Chris’s eyes. “Which do I open first?”

Chris sat on the edge of the bed. “You pick.”

With a flirty head tilt, Tom reached for the white box and flipped open the lid.

Inside were two pairs of shoes—black and grey high top sneakers and a pair of black boots that laced up to mid-shin.

He gaped at them, picking up one pair, and then the other.

Chris nodded. “I checked the size of your sneakers when you were sleeping last weekend. And, I think both of these will look fucking hot on you with those tight jeans you always wear.”

Tom licked his lips. “For me to ride with, Daddy?”

“Yeah. You can use both on the bike with me. You’ll need to break them in, though.”

He cradled the shoes to his chest and then placed them back in their box, carefully arranging the tissue paper over them again. He jumped forward and hugged Chris around the neck, immensely pleased when he drew back to see Chris’s red cheeks.

“Go on and open the bag,” he said gruffly.

Removing pink tissue paper, Tom brought out five pairs of lace panties. Some had satin designs on them, but all were so beautiful and delicate and just for him.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, fingering each pair.

“Do you like them?”

In answer, Tom bounded off the bed and pulled on the white lace, feeling it hug his cock snugly, riding up on his bottom, letting his cheeks poke out.

“Jesus,” Chris murmured, reaching to touch Tom’s thigh. “You were made to wear those.”

Tom beamed and fell back on the bed, rooting around inside the bag. He discovered a roller-ball perfume that he sniffed and immediately rubbed over his neck, followed lastly by a shirt. On the front was a black and white American flag facing down from collar to hem. It was low-cut, so it would hang to the middle of Tom’s chest, which he felt secretly thrilled about. The back was all black lace. It was a shirt designed for women, obviously, but Tom became possessive of it immediately. He slipped into it and stood for Chris.

It was only slightly loose, hugging his straight waist and flat belly, cutting a deep V on his chest. With the panties and the shirt, he blushed as he spun for Chris, feeling enormously attractive and actually _seen_.

“Thank you so much, Chris. No one’s ever bought me anything like this…I love everything. In fact,” he said, touching his hands down his new shirt. “I think I’ll wear this tonight for the bonfire.”

Chris looked down and took a deep breath. “Babe, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Mick thinks he can dictate things in our personal life and honestly, if it’s not crew business, then I don’t fucking care.”

Tom sat down beside him. “Will you be with me?”

“Every minute.”

He shrugged. “Then I don’t care. I’ll go. I mean, he did make me uneasy last week, but I felt so much better as soon as you were in the room. I knew he couldn’t hurt me, then. And he looked like he wanted to. Hurt me. He looked at me the way Jeff sometimes does. But I’m yours. And maybe he should be reminded of that.”

Chris kissed his cheek, chuckling. “You’re absolutely right. I won’t leave your side,” Chris said, wrapping him under his arm. “And I think you’ll have fun. The fire gets so big. And there’s music and drinking.”

Tom laughed. “When does it start?”

“Late tonight. So maybe we should nap before, yeah? Don’t want my kitten getting sleepy before midnight.”

Tom poked his belly. “More like don’t want my old man to get sleepy before midnight.”

Chris grabbed him and tickled his ribs. “Old man, huh? I’m your old man?”

Tom burst out in giggles and bucked, squirming to get away. “Yes! You’re _my_ old man!”

Chris pushed him back on the bed and pulled his panties to the side, devouring him with kisses and filthy whispers and a good amount of love bites, sighs and breaths like flowers on their skin.

**

They did nap, Tom waking up later in the day to Chris already inside him. He fucked him face down on the bed, hand curling into his hair, tugging with every thrust.

And while Chris showered, Tom fiddled some more with his phone. He clicked on the camera app, his screen zooming into focus on the front wall. Looking at the closed bathroom door, a smile tugged on his face as he thought of something.

When he slipped into the bathroom a minute later, steam rose high on the ceiling, the mirror fogged and sweating with it. He could hear Chris moving around behind the shower curtain and he approached it quietly, phone in one hand. Slowly, he pulled the curtain to the side and there was Chris, soaping his face, big bubbly suds streaming down his chest and belly, gathering around the root of his cock and spilling further along his legs.

Tom’s mouth fell open, still amazed at his body, the muscles and the tattoos, made more menacing somehow with the soap thinly obscuring most of them. Chris wiped his face and peered at Tom in surprise. Tom aimed the camera and took a picture, capturing Chris from the neck down.

“I’m keeping that forever,” he grinned, saving it into an album.

Chris smiled lazily at him, rinsing off the rest of the soap. “You can take more if you like.”

“Actually,” Tom said, putting his phone down on the sink counter. He eyed Chris’s cock, filling slowly with interest. Thick veins stood out clearly, and Tom suddenly wanted to feel the rise and bump of them on his tongue. “I…um, want to suck you.”

“Suck me?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, stepping into the stall and dropping to his knees on the wet tiles. Chris blocked most of the shower spray from hitting him directly, but a light mist still landed on his face, clinging to his lashes as he looked up at Chris. Images of some of the things he’d seen guys to do other guys online flooded Tom’s head, but face to face with Chris’s cock had his mouth watering and he knew abruptly, somewhat on instinct, what to do.

Leaning forward, he nosed along his sac, hanging heavy and covered in a fuzz of blond hairs. And then he licked a stripe down the curve, letting the tip of his tongue curl under his balls and sucked one into his mouth. Above him, Chris groaned, a hand splayed on the wall for balance.

Tom blinked up at him, face beading with the tiniest droplets of water, and he moaned, rolling the sac around before letting it fall free with a pop.

“Fuck,” Chris whispered, trembling suddenly.

Tom smiled and moved to the other side, sucking and rolling, careful with the spongy feel of his balls. When he took his cock in hand, he pumped it a few times, the tip gleaming and red.

He kissed the tip, red and extended past the foreskin, and closed his lips over it. Chris shuddered, fingers streaking loudly on the tiled wall as he fought for a grip. It was bitter and salty, reminding Tom of the almonds his mother used to pack for him when he was in elementary school, back when she used to still do that sort of thing. Tongue flicking over the slit, like boys did online, he lapped at the head, slipping down only an inch, letting his mouth get used to the flavor and feel of it. But Chris was shaking and looking down at him with something dark in his eyes, and Tom felt a spark zip down his spine. He crawled closer, sitting back on his heels and holding Chris by the hips. Widening his mouth he went as far down as he could go before Chris was nudging his throat.

Gagging, Tom yanked his head away and coughed, wiping his mouth.

A big hand cupped his head. “Are you okay?” Chris asked, voice rough.

Tom nodded and hurried back, taking him in his mouth and sucking hard. He wanted all of him, he wanted his throat bruised and sore, the warm spill of his cum the only thing able to soothe it.

Bobbing his head, he alternated between sucking him and lapping at the underside, fascinated with the thick vein. It wasn't like studying his own cock, because the cock of another was suddenly like an entirely new animal, and Tom wanted to do it right, wanted Chris to remember this first time forever.

“Relax your jaw, baby,” Chris rasped. “You’re doing amazing. Can you go deeper?”

Tom, desperately wanting to, nodded and opened wide, swallowing Chris down again. But when he nudged his throat, Tom breathed in deep through his nose and relaxed his jaw, looking up at Chris.

“Good baby boy,” Chris praised. “Hold still.” He cupped a hand on Tom’s head and wrapped the other around his neck, holding him steady. And then he started pumping his hips, slow and gentle. Mouth stretched, Tom knelt obediently, hands around Chris’s thighs, staring up at him with near worship.

“Close your lips, that’s it, good.”

Tom moaned and Chris’s hips stuttered.

“Such a good little slut, aren’t you?”

Tom blushed, and blinked once, lashes heavy with shower water. He tried not to gag, but Chris was pushing in deeper than before and his eyes watered painfully. Breaking off fast, he coughed wetly, his hacks vibrating in the small bathroom.

“Tom—,” Chris started, but Tom took a deep breath and wrapped his mouth around his cock again, moaning at the hard feel of it, the heat and scent, muted somewhat by the water. Sneaking a hand between Chris’s legs, he trailed his fingers along his perineum, cupping his sac gently. He sucked hard, eagerly, saliva spilling down his chin, tears leaking from his eyes.

“Look at you,” Chris breathed. “My cum slut. You gonna take my cum, baby? Swallow it down?”

Tom pulled off, voice wrecked, “Yes, Daddy.” And then he continued, bobbing and sucking. Chris’s fingers curled in his hair, hips moving faster, erratic and rough. Blinded by tears, Tom put his hands on Chris’s hips, pushing back a little, but Chris was too far gone, gripping his hair with both hands, shoving into his mouth. The force of Chris’s thrusts and the tingling in Tom’s legs had him shuffling back, and Chris followed him. Pressed to the wall, jaw sore, Tom let Chris move his head, breaths short, feeling faint. He keened, legs bent, the water pooling under his ass.

“Take it,” Chris growled, hips snapping forward. “Take what Daddy gives you.” And then he cried out, shuddering violently. His cock pulsed in Tom’s mouth and a warm gush of cum spilled down his throat, fluttering to swallow it down.

Tom grunted and hollowed his cheeks, sucking on the head like he would a lollipop, small streams of cum coating his tongue, making him dizzy with want. He was hard, his erection hanging heavy between his legs, but he didn’t touch it, all his focus on Chris.

Chris sighed, weary, as he leaned up against the wall, his cock falling free from Tom’s lips.

Wiping his mouth, Tom grinned. “Did I do good, Daddy?”

Chris touched his cheek, eyes soft. “What did I do to deserve you?” he murmured.

Tom, heart flipping, leaned into his hand and nuzzled his palm. Chris squatted and reached between Tom’s legs, the water spraying on them full force now. He gasped, angling his head away just as Chris took his cock, fisting the tip. His blue eyes were sharp on Tom’s face, absorbing every flinch, every lip bite. He came fast, Chris aiming his cock up, ribbons landing on his cheeks and brow.

Tom giggled when Chris peppered his face with tiny kisses, lapping up the warm cum. He drew back, face oddly still pink, as if overwhelmed with something he couldn't quite name.

Tom stayed quiet, wondering what Chris was thinking.

"I really do love you," Chris said at last, quiet, eyes on the wet floor.

Tom ran the blunt edge of his nails through Chris’s shorn hair. “I really do love you, too.”

They smiled, staring.

And then Chris pulled Tom to his feet and gave him a long kiss before toweling off and leaving the room. Tom soaped his hair and rinsed his body, legs still feeling shaky and a little weak. He found his phone on the bed when he stepped out to change, and he took a moment to open up his pictures and pull up the one of Chris, gazing at it for a long minute before closing out of it.

"I'll be right back. Going to the garage," Chris called from the living room.

"Okay!" Tom called back, starting to rifle through his pile of belongings. After applying lotion on himself and rolling on the perfume Chris gave him—leaving wet streaks over his neck, behind his hear, and in the crooks of his elbows—Tom slipped into the bright pink panties and his favorite black jeans. Sitting low on his hips, they were tight and slim along his legs. He pulled the black and white shirt on over his head and then sat at the edge of the bed to tie his new lace-up boots.

Jeans tucked into the top of the boots, Tom walked in circles around the room, liking the snug feel of them with every turn. They were a little tight, but he knew they would soften once he broke them in. Skimming some gloss over his lips, he finished with a generous coating of mascara, his lashes black-tinted, curling upward in long spikes. Tom gazed at himself in the mirror, adjusting his crotch slightly. His nails were still in good condition, dark glitter green, so he left them as they were.

After tucking his phone in his back pocket, he left the room to find Chris.

The evening was bleeding into night, the far horizon a light orange, reminding him of peaches and creamsicles and a lip balm he’d snagged from his mother’s handbag when he was fourteen. The air was still warm, but the desert always grew cool at night and he hoped the bonfire would keep him warm. That, or Chris would.

His boots crunched on the pebbled ground as he approached the garage, light spilling from between the cracks of the doors. Chris was moving something heavy, a loud dragging noise cutting into the quiet night.

“Hey,” Tom said, stepping onto the dusty concrete floor.

In the middle of pulling a large box into the far corner, Chris glanced at him and then did a double take.

“Tom,” he said, eyes widening, lips parting in a surprised smile. “Baby—wow, you look gorgeous.”

Tom stuck his hands into his back pockets, ducking his head with a blush. “Thanks. I think it looks pretty nice.” He turned on his heel and let Chris look at his back, where the lace tickled softly on his skin, his bottom pert and high in his jeans.

Chris abandoned the box and stepped toward him. “More than nice. Shit, you’re going to be the prettiest person there.” He pulled him close, gasping when he saw Tom’s eyes. “Your eyelashes!”

Tom laughed. “You like them?”

“I love everything about you,” Chris whispered, taking Tom’s hips and pushing him against the worktable. He cupped Tom’s ass. “Are you wearing them?”

Nodding, Tom grinned.

“Which color?”

“The pink ones.”

Chris groaned and bent to kiss him. He pulled back, licking his own lips in surprise. “Strawberry.”

Tom giggled, and pulled on his hand, leading him to the door. “Let’s go, Daddy, before you smear my mascara.”

“Yes, babe,” Chris laughed.

He chained the garage and locked the door to his house. Jumping on the Cross Bones, Tom put on his helmet, and hugged Chris tight.

“Will you fuck me tonight, Daddy? When we get back?” He nosed behind Chris’s ear. “I want to drown in your cum.”

Chris revved the engine. “Keep talking like that and we won’t be going anywhere.”

Tom smiled and pursed his lips, lowering his visor and hanging on tight.

**

The place they went to was even further in the desert, Tom was amazed to discover. He didn't think anyone lived out here, believing it was all state-owned land and rotting animal carcasses. Passing by the black silhouettes of towering saguaros and squat cactus barrels and jumping cholla and thin-limbed Palo Verde trees, the only illumination came from the quarter moon and Chris's headlight. But up ahead, Tom spied a bright orange glow, spreading further into the sky the closer they got to it. A rickety two story house loomed into view, all peeling shingles and termite-bitten wood. Dozens of motorcycles were parked along the dark drive, the house's two main windows reflecting the giant bonfire so that they appeared like great blinking eyes. Chris maneuvered through the bikes to park just within the shadows of the house.

Tom ruffled his curls as soon as his helmet was off. Chris took his hand and they walked toward the inferno, bracketed by a low stone wall, blackened by previous fires. Around the fire, a good distance away, was a continuous circular stone bench, where a crowd of people was already sitting. There were more people present than had gone to see Chris the weekend before. Dressed in lots of leather and black denim, the throng was on the older side, quite a few of them with lined faces or gray hair, the oldest being Mick, whom Tom immediately picked out. Mick was seated in the middle of the wall, beer bottle in hand, red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck. He smiled at Tom, inclining his beer toward him in greeting.

Tom squeezed Chris's hand and stepped closer to him.

A cheer arose in the crowd when people saw Chris approaching. Many were drinking, many had tattoos and rough ear piercings, skin leathered by the sun, all smiling genuinely as each swooped Chris into a hug. Tom hung back, smiling as Chris returned each greeting with just as much affection.

"Quite the welcome, ain't it?"

Tom jumped and turned. Mick was standing just next to him, eyes narrowed on Chris.

Tom crossed his arms. "Why wouldn't it be?" Tom said, a bit more sharply than he intended. "Being gone for so long." _Because of your orders,_ he wanted to add.

Mick's head snapped in his direction. He smiled. "Oh, and here I thought you were a timid one."

Tom shrugged, not wanting to give Mick the satisfaction of looking at him. "For those who deserve it, yes."

Mick tossed his head back and laughed, a great booming cackle from deep in his lungs. "How in the world did he ever find you? A delicate beauty like you?" he asked, eyes twinkling with mirth.

Tom smirked, eyes on Chris, who had just turned to look for him, eyes scanning the crowd. "We found each other," he replied. Chris walked over as soon as he saw him, and nodding once at Mick, took Tom's outstretched hand and pulled him into the crowd.

Tom gave Mick one last look, blank and slightly disapproving before turning his back on him and following Chris to the other side of the ring. Chris took him through the small groups of people, rattling off names that Tom immediately forgot. But Chris introduced him to everyone as his boyfriend, setting Tom's stomach aflutter.

“Well, hot damn!” Tom heard someone cry. “Has Mick gotten a look at this one?”

Someone yanked the person away before Tom could pinpoint who it was, but he noticed Chris’s brows draw low, the hard clench in his jaw. He gripped Tom closer and moved on.

Apart from that one comment, no one batted an eye at Chris’s introductions, and Tom was grateful for that.

A few people hung back, Tom noticed, all men and younger than most. Maybe these were new additions to the gang. Six years is a long time and changes happened no matter the circumstances. Still, they all looked at Chris with something like reluctant awe, a bit of jealousy in their stares, sipping their beers, jaws gritted with every swallow. Tom could imagine what it might be like for them, watching Chris being welcomed back like some kind of long lost son, falling right back into his spot in the crew while they might have labored and fought to prove their worth to the other members.

Tom did his best to ignore them.

Chris headed to a spot where ten burgeoning ice chests sat on the ground.

"What did he say to you?" Chris asked as soon as they were out of anyone's earshot.

Tom explained, keeping his voice down.

Chris shook his head, stopping and rooting around for a drink. "I don't get what's with him. He's been strange ever since I got out."

"I don't care about him," Tom said, sidling up next to Chris. "Your friends look so nice."

Chris straightened, a beer in one hand. "I've missed them. Since I've been back, I've only been able to see a few here and there. But everyone's here tonight and they're all very interested in _you._ "

He uncapped the beer and handed it to Tom, who frowned. "Me?"

"Pretty boy like you, they all want the details," Chris laughed, lighting a cigarette. But there was a hard edge to his chuckle and Tom wondered if it had to do with general nosiness or that remark about Mick.

A twinge of nervousness lit in Tom's gut. "I didn't even think about that, Chris. Would they judge me? Or you?" He hated how small his voice sounded.

Chris blew out smoke and tossed an arm around his shoulders. "No. No way. These are my friends. We go back years. I'm a grown ass man. I can do what I want. Plus," he said, murmuring around his cigarette. "I've never brought anyone around before, so..."

He left it at that and Tom stared at him, a shot of adrenaline lighting in his blood. But then he remembered that Mick had ordered Chris to bring Tom today. If he hadn't done that, would Chris have brought him?

Tom took a swig of beer and grimaced as he swallowed it down, his first taste of the stuff. It was wheaty and sharp and left a thick aftertaste in his mouth.

"You're not drinking?" he asked Chris.

"No," Chris said, eyes on the other side of the fire, where Mick and a few of the older men sat laughing at something Mick had just said. "Absolutely not."

There it was again, the sense that Chris was uneasy about something, and Tom picked up on it like a glare of light in a dark room. He took Chris’s hand and squeezed it.

The night passed in the same fashion. Chris kept Tom close to him, sitting them down in the middle of a group riders that seemed the most affectionate with Chris, telling stories of his time in prison, catching up with what had happened since he’d seen them last. Tom counted more than one set of eyes flick his way when they thought he wasn’t looking, and he started to realize that he didn't care. He felt gorgeous that night. His boots were gorgeous. His mascara and lip gloss were gorgeous. His shirt was gorgeous and his Daddy was gorgeous, sitting beside him, their thighs touching, Chris’s arm thrown behind Tom’s shoulders the whole time.

The more Tom drank, the braver he felt with looking outside their small group. He realized there were some other young people, not as young as him, but girls in their twenties shadowing some of the men, whom Tom assumed were their significant others. He wasn't about to go and make friends with them, but it helped him feel better about his age among these more weathered individuals.

Sitting back comfortably in his chair, Tom stretched his legs out in front of him, admiring his boots, his thin legs, the black and white stripes of his shirt. Another swig of beer and he leaned his head back, fascinated by the great bowl that was the sky, the stars flashing past.

He could hear the soothing and deep cadence of Chris's voice, gesticulating with only one hand, the other thrown casually across Tom’s lap as he talked. He and his friends laughed and shouted over each other, making up for lost time. Tom leaned his head on Chris's shoulder, eyes wide on the group of girls that had brought out an old boom box from the side shed and fiddled with the tuner, settling on a poppy kind of station, of all things. They all cheered when a dance number came on, and even though the older folks grumbled half-heartedly about the choice of music, they all looked content to see their girls dancing about, like those ancient mystic women darting around the bonfire, long hair bouncing, painted lips spread wide in dazzling smiles.

Tom sang along under his breath, foot tapping. He wanted to dance with those girls, he wanted to hop around on both feet, beer bottle in hand, dust rising to coat on his skin. But he didn't know them and it seemed terribly uncouth to just invite himself into their tiny dancing circle.

"And what about you, Tom. You go to the university or something?"

It took a moment for Tom to realize he was being spoken to. He blinked and tore his eyes away from the girls. "I'm sorry?"

The guy repeated his question and Tom froze, suddenly aware of how still Chris had become next to him. Where the lie came from, he had no idea, but next thing he knew, he'd spun a story about how he'd just finished up his first year at the university. That he was turning twenty one in February and that Chris had fixed his ten speed for him, cracking a joke about how it didn't exactly have the same kind of power as the bikes he was used to working with.

"I hear you on that," said the guy who had addressed him first. "Man, Chris, it still hurts me about that bike you totaled just before getting tossed in the big house," and just as quick, the focus was off Tom and back on Chris, who relaxed beside him and continued the conversation.

Tom drank some more beer, relieved, feeling as if he'd passed some sort of test. Still, he kept catching one of the guy’s skeptical looks, averting his eyes when the other didn’t look away. Working extra hard not to fidget, he couldn’t help curling his hand around Chris’s elbow, taking another long drink.

At the first lull in conversation, the guy leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry but, how old did you say you were again?”

“I’m sorry, but _who_ did you say you were again?” Chris cut in, striking a match and lighting a new cigarette. The flame, Tom couldn’t help but notice, lit his face in an orange glow, the cold stare he gave the guy hard and gleaming.

The group around them burst out laughing, and the man, one of the new members it seemed, looked away, taking an angry swig of beer.

“Don’t fucking mess with Chris, Johnny!”

“He’ll fuck you up,” another man cried, and there was more laughter.

The man muttered and sat back in his seat, effectively abandoning the conversation.

Tom wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, or how much time had passed, but there was suddenly lots of good natured shouting and then a rickety folding table was set before them and Chris was rolling up the sleeve of his flannel shirt. He was going to arm wrestle, Tom realized in his slightly drunken stupor, and his opponent was the man who had questioned Tom’s age.

Tom stared with wide eyes, accepting the cigarette Chris passed to him, taking a long drag.

The guy tried valiantly, but there was no question Chris would win in the end. He slammed the guy’s arm down and sat back, smiling smugly as the other stood up quickly, pointing a thick finger at Chris, yelling all sorts of shit about how he cheated and it was all rigged.

The crowd booed and patted his back, telling him not to be a sore loser but he broke away. He charged at Chris, who stood in a flash and landed one solid punch to his jaw. There was a sickening crack and the guy hit the ground, moaning and dazed.

Tom gasped, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Everyone seemed entirely unconcerned, hooting and dragging the guy to his feet, dusting him off and handing him another beer.

Chris threw an arm around Tom’s shoulders and walked them back to their seats, snagging the cigarette and inhaling deep. Tom stood on his tiptoes and kissed his neck, Chris muttering on about ‘that fucking dumbass’.

The later it got, the cooler it became and soon Tom was snug under Chris's arm, shivering slightly. The girls were lying along the low wall, dozing under blankets and sweaters, while the older people continued talking softly in their leather jackets, fresh beer bottles in hand. How any of these people planned on riding out of there after the amount of alcohol they'd consumed, Tom had no idea, but then again, they seemed like the sort of people who didn't much abide by rules.

He shifted in his seat and Chris hugged him tight, peering down at him.

"You okay, baby?"

Tom squirmed. "I have to piss."

Chris nodded. “Okay.”

As soon as they stood, Tom felt dizzy. Chris snatched him around the waist and guided him away from the others and the warmth of the fire. Chills burst over his skin, and he realized suddenly that the ride home was going to be very cold.

Chris led him to the dark side of the house, where ancient looking vehicles had rusted into the very ground, bracketed by tall weeds and brambles. Chris kept a hand on the back of his neck as Tom urinated into the weeds, moaning as his bladder released. He zipped himself up and swayed on his feet, Chris tugging him closer until Tom collapsed against his chest with a tired huff. Lips slid along his Tom's neck, big arms bracketing his slim belly, and he breathed out a soft laugh, blinking slow and sleepily.

Head tossed back on Chris’s shoulders, Tom smiled up at the stars. They rocked in place together, Chris mouthing at his jaw.

"You feel so warm," he murmured, hands trailing down over his hips.

Tom laughed. "That's rich, considering the fact that I'm freezing."

"You're tipsy," Chris whispered.

"I am not!" Tom cried, giggling again. He stumbled back a few steps and Chris tightened his hold on him. His head spun and he clutched at Chris. “Daddy, my throat hurts.”

“That’s from blowing me, baby.”

Tom hummed. “I want to taste you again.” He spun unevenly and tugged on the button of Chris’s jeans. “Please, Daddy. I’ll be super quiet.”

Chris gripped his head hard, and then turned to look at the side of the house, around which they could still hear the shouts and chatter of the rest of the crew, the roaring blaze glowing against the black sky.

“Daddy,” Tom murmured, hiccupping once. He giggled and hiccupped again. “Daddy, fuck me.”

Chris rubbed their noses together, their breaths puffing out in white clouds. Tom was shivering despite holding him tight.

“Not here, baby.”

Tom pouted, foot stomping down softly. “But I’ve been so good, Daddy.”

“I know, baby, but anyone could just—.”

Tom cupped the front of his jeans and let out an excited little squeal when he felt Chris half hard. He dropped to his knees and unbuckled him fast. Chris cursed quietly, but cupped Tom’s head anyway, endeared by his youthful eagerness. He cast one more glance to the corner of the house, but they remained in the darkened quiet, unnoticed for now behind the rusted old car with its busted windows and mouse nests.

Tom’s mouth on his cock was searing and he hissed, hips jutting forward slightly. Tom moaned and blinked those long lashes at him, the blue of his eyes looking eerie in the light from the distant fire. All tongue and tight lips, Tom moaned around him and Chris stroked his hair, feeling his chest tighten at the soft look of adoration Tom gave him, the cling of his blue tinged hands, the slight sway of his inebriated body. Chris kept him steady, moving his hips. Tom relaxed his neck and let Chris fuck his mouth, tears and throat burning, gagging only a little bit, his blood pumping faster and faster. And when Chris came, half stifled grunt of cold-laced breath, Tom swallowed and cleaned him good, smiling wide and lapping at the sticky drippings.

Chris hauled him up and tucked himself in. Long arms wrapped around his neck and then Tom’s mouth was on his and they both groaned, falling back against the car, grabbing at each other roughly.

“Daddy,” Tom breathed, his panted giggles teasing.

“I think it’s time to go,” Chris said, fighting to control his lust. He’d just come in Tom’s mouth and his cock was already starting to stir with more interest.

Tom nodded eagerly, eyes glazed and half-lidded. His cheeks were flush and his arms were pebbled with chills. Chris bundled him close, wanting him wrapped up safe and warm in bed. He pulled them back to the others, many of whom were also leaving. It was just after two in the morning and the fire was dying down. Everyone said their goodbyes, including Mick, who shook Chris’s hand and winked at Tom.

Tom shifted and hid his face in Chris’s neck, murmuring quietly.

“Lightweight, is he?” Mick said good-naturedly, but Chris couldn’t help noticing Mick’s eyes drift down Tom’s body, lingering on his dust-coated knees. And the sudden rage he felt at knowing Mick was imagining Tom doing something as intimate as blowing him edged Chris’s vision in red.

He nodded once tersely, before pulling Tom away, tottering and stumbling beside him.

Most of the bikes were gone, so Chris would be able maneuver onto the road without a problem. What worried him was Tom’s chattering teeth. Before climbing on the Cross Bones, Chris unbuttoned his flannel shirt, leaving only the white muscle shirt he wore underneath.

“Here, baby,” he said softly, draping it over Tom’s back, buttoning it up to his neck. He swam in it, but it would do. Practically asleep on his feet, Tom leaned heavily against him.

“Will you stay awake for me, baby?” Chris asked, fighting back the sickening image of Tom slipping off the back of his bike.

Tom hummed half-heartedly, but nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Are you sure? I need you to be absolutely sure. Otherwise, we can hole up somewhere together in Jake’s house if you can’t make the trip.”

“No,” Tom said faintly. “I want your bed.”

Chris hopped on the bike and patted the seat behind him.

“Climb on, baby. It’s okay.”

Tom eyed the seat blankly, drunk enough to not realize how dangerous riding intoxicated was. But there was literally no traffic on these back roads and Chris’s house wasn’t far.

With some frustrated whining and shifting about, Tom finally managed to sit on the bike, arms wrapped around his waist, already dozing against his back. His cheeks were freezing, and Chris ran a hand roughly over Tom’s arms hoping the friction would help warm him a little before they headed home. Afraid the helmet would be too heavy for Tom to hold up, Chris put it on himself for lack of a better place to keep it.

When Chris started the bike, Tom startled and cried out in softly in fear, but Chris soothed his hands, kicking at the ground to guide the bike on the road.

“Shh, it’s alright. Daddy’s here. I won’t let you fall, baby. I promise you.”

Tom quieted down, and Chris accelerated on the pavement, the cold winds cutting around them. But Chris hardly felt it. He was a free man under the night sky, his bike purring strong and Tom snuggling closer. There was nothing wrong with the world.

Except there was.

The way Mick looked at Tom like a wolf circling a lamb set Chris’s teeth on edge. And what the fuck had Stevie meant when, with a knowing smile and appeasing look, he’d asked if Mick had taken a look at ‘this one’, and jerked his thumb in Tom’s direction. Had Chris missed so much in prison? Or was something coming to light now that Tom was in his life?

He shook his head, not liking when he wasn’t in control. He knew he would need to watch him carefully from that point on. Tom certainly wasn’t helpless, but he was still young, still a little green and so, so beautiful. He really had been the prettiest one there that night, even up against girls in their prime. There was something so innocent and fragile about Tom, a soft quality that made the roughest men want to touch and mark and claim.

Only, Chris had already done that and there wasn’t a chance in hell he was about to let another man try the same.

That round pixy face with lips pursed around Chris’s cigarette, the trembly way he would call Chris ‘daddy’, the way when in the dead of night, he would find Chris and nestle close, soft sighs in Chris’s ear. Tom was his and no one was taking him away from Chris.

Just as he was turning into his yard, Tom shifted against him, hands spreading over Chris’s abdomen. Chris tightened his hold and Tom sagged against him again.

Rather than take the bike inside the garage, Chris parked it as close to the back wall of his house as possible, just outside his bedroom window. He stood and kept a steadying hand on Tom’s shoulder, stooping to pick him up in his arms.

Chris caught a scent of his perfume and dusty sweat, sweet like a child’s, and he nosed along Tom’s temple trying to chase it. Cradling him gently, amazed at how light Tom was, he maneuvered a heavy tarp over the stationary bike. Keys in hand, Tom whispering softly, Chris walked into his house, down the hall and into his room. He lay Tom down on the bed.

Gently, he removed his boots, his jeans, his shirt, and lastly, his lovely pink panties. Those he stuffed under his pillow. Completely unconscious, Tom lay perfectly still, brows slightly furrowed, hands looking bigger than usual next to his naked hips. Stripping quickly, Chris arranged Tom higher on the bed and then crawled under the covers next to him.

“Daddy?” Tom mumbled, lashes fluttering.

“Sleep now, baby. We’re home.”

Tom sighed. And with the lights off, Tom radiating heat, burrowing against him, Chris kissed the crown of his head and closed his eyes.

**

Tom woke with the worst headache of his life. He whimpered and kept his eyes closed, pulling the blanket over his face.

Someone chuckled.

“You need to drink water, babe.”

“No,” Tom whispered, fussing.

“Take these pills at least. They’ll help with the pain.”

Blindly, Tom let Chris feed him the pills and water, and collapsed again, groaning.

“What happened last night?” he grumbled. His teeth felt lined with grit, tongue huge and dry.

The bed dipped and a big hand cupped his head. “Well, you met everyone. Had a few drinks, and I found out that you turn into a little sleepy kitten when you’re drunk.”

Tom huffed. “Did I embarrass you?” he asked quietly.

“Not at all. You were with me all night and it was great. You were great.”

Tom blinked up at him. “What time is it, Daddy?”

“Just after one.”

Tom rolled and pressed his face to Chris’s thigh. “Wanna sleep s’more.”

“How about we go eat and then bring a movie home and then I’ll fuck you nice and slow.”

Tom considered this. “Can we do all those things but in reverse order?”

Chris tossed his head back and laughed, Tom’s stomach flipping happily at the sound. “Is Tom feeling neglected?”

Tom pouted. “Daddy promised to fuck me when we got back and he didn’t.”

“Yes, but baby was asleep.”

“I’m awake now.”

Chris smiled and stroked Tom’s cheek. “Okay. I’ll fuck you now.”

Tom bounced up and ran to the bathroom, his headache already starting to fade with the pain pills. “Let me brush my teeth!”

Chris laughed again and waited patiently.

After all the stretch and the slick and the groans, and because Tom was such a great big bundle of excitement, Chris lay back and let Tom bounce away on his cock. Those slim thighs worked a fast pace, hands splayed on his chest, head of golden curls thrown back. Chris memorized every detail, the hot flush of pink on his long throat, the small cries, the hot and wet heat of his hole swallowing Chris’s cock.

“Daddy,” he moaned, his round ass pressing down hard.

“Ride me, baby,” Chris whispered, hands on his hips, helping him swivel. His cock left wet streaks on his belly, red and swollen. The boy loved it, and Chris loved watching him fall apart.

“Yes, yes, right there, Daddy…almost—,” Tom whined, mouth falling open as he clenched on a hard thrust and screamed, his release thrumming through his limbs, making him tremble and collapse forward. Chris caught him, his cum sticky on their chests. He took a handful of Tom’s hair, gripping it.

“Gonna fuck your pussy hard. Give you my baby. You want that, Tom? You want my baby?”

Half-dazed, Tom nodded against his neck, whispers loud and hot. “Yes, Daddy. Fill me with your baby. Make me big with it.”

Planting his feet, Chris fucked up into him, skin slapping loudly until he came too, powerful hips lifting Tom from the bed. He grunted and thrust again and again, Tom whimpering and driving him mad with need.

They crumpled, breathing hard and kissing lazily, hands roaming in each other’s sweaty hair.

“I’m starving,” Tom complained and they grinned.

“Come on then,” Chris said, smacking Tom’s ass. Tom yelped and hopped up, pulling Chris into the bathroom with him.

**

The weeks passed and time did nothing to reduce Tom’s sex drive.

Chris would pick him up every Friday night, and even sometimes after school, showing up at the parking lot as classes were released. Tom would walk calmly up to him, a small coy smile on his face, and put on his helmet. Chris, wearing shades, tattoos visible and rippling, would rev the engine and then pull away with a low rumble.

They spent most of their days in bed, Chris a groaning lump of laughing fatigue and Tom a giggling pouncing cat. Eating, watching movies, sleeping, they were never more than a foot away from each other, pressed especially tight at night and on Chris’s bikes, riding around the steadily cooling streets of their desert city, Chris often parking in some isolated clump of arid land and fucking Tom over the leather seat of his Harley.

There were more parties with the bike crew and even a few sleep-overs at Jake Harper’s, the guy who hosted the bonfires. Packing a single sleeping bag and blankets and a pillow to the back of his bike, they would join the others around the simmering smaller flames and camp out under the stars. The nights were colder than in the summer and lying rolled together in the bag created their small bubble of warmth, Tom snuggled into Chris’s side.

The only bad part of these sleep-overs was that Mick hovered and watched, often masking his interest with jokes and good-natured shoulder pats. But Tom learned not to stand too close to him, often keeping just a step behind Chris, or else under his arm, the only safe distance that kept Mick at bay.

But it wouldn’t stop Tom from his cuddles and his whispers to Chris under the stars, the others scattered and murmuring amongst themselves, too. He loved the camp outs, the wood smoke and the camaraderie, more of Chris’s friends approaching Tom, even the girls inviting him to dance and talking to him about ‘girl stuff’. And he loved the way Chris would look at him, the soft stares across the firelight, lit cigarette in his mouth.

Tom loved it best when he would wake in the mornings to find Chris hard but still asleep. Stretching himself took only a few quiet minutes, nosing around the root of Chris’s cock. And when he straddled him and slid down with a gasp, he would already be moving by the time Chris woke up. Other times, Tom would take him in his mouth, moaning around the hard length, eyes on Chris, who would stir and startle awake, Tom’s name on his lips.

Practically living with Chris, Tom kept most of his clothes and things at his house, having sorted them in time beside Chris’s clothes in his closet, their toiletries lined together on the bathroom sink. Slowly, his books and music and binders and gadgets made their home in Chris’s bedroom, and neither of them made mention of it, just continued to fuck and eat and sleep together, laughing and petting each other, Tom never having felt more loved in his life.

His mother’s house was starting to feel like a tomb, only a temporary stop between his return to Chris’s small adobe home. She was working more shifts, hardly ever there, and Jeff was a fizzing ball of hate, watching him from around corners, from behind the living room curtains as Tom hopped off Chris’s bike every Sunday night. His nose had healed, albeit is somewhat crookedly, but his arm was kept in a tight wrap against his side, the break having been a bad one. He still drank heavily and Tom still felt afraid of him, despite having so far obeyed Chris’s threat to leave Tom alone.

Chris was leaving more bruises on his body, his hips and inner thighs and neck darkened with finger marks and hickeys and bites. A particularly mottled bruise was forming purple on his collarbone and Tom did his best to hide it, easy enough under his sweaters and jackets and scarves. But the inside of his mother’s house was warm, and so one evening he walked out of his room for water wearing only some basketball shorts and a loose T-shirt. He was just about to close the door to his room again when the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he froze.

“You’re a whore,” he heard behind him, and he turned, glass clutched tight in his fingers.

Jeff stood at the start of the hall, a glass of something dark and amber in his hand. His eyes were shot, red-rimmed and glassy and he swayed slightly. Even from that short distance, Tom could smell the booze on him.

“You heard me, _whore_. Think I don’t see the evidence of your heinous sin? That mark of his blooming on your neck. Little slut, ass up in the air for him. You let him fuck you and buy you things. That makes you a whore.” He took a long swallow of the dark liquid and then his face went slack, as if thinking of something. Suddenly, it screwed up in rage and he angled his arm back.

Tom had just enough time to spin and sprint into his room before something burst on the wall behind him, a constellation of broken glass and brown liquor. His own glass of water was rolling on the floor, spilled.

He slammed his door shut and locked it, and was trying to slide into his old sneakers when Jeff started banging on the weak wood.

“Open the fucking door, Tom. You let that thug fuck you and don’t want me to even _look_ at you? You’re a fucking bitch! Open the door!”

Tom stumbled in his haste, heart racing in fright, and was barely inching his window up when his bedroom door crashed open, splinters of wood flying everywhere. He cried out, ducking and looking back. The hate distorting Jeff’s face seemed unreal, a visceral dramatization of a human emotion, but there was nothing fake about it and that’s what scared Tom the most. Jeff would murder him and rape his dead body if he couldn’t force himself on Tom before he killed him.

Jeff crossed the room and Tom hurried to scramble over the window ledge, but a hand grabbed his calf and hauled him halfway back in. He yelled, but Jeff released his leg and clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging Tom’s body against his and further away from his only exit.

“Shut your whore mouth. Get back in here and take my dick, you filthy cunt.”

 _No!_ Tom struggled and was able to lift his leg and knee Jeff in the groin, putting all of his weight into bending Jeff’s arm back. Jeff roared in pain and it was enough for Tom to slip loose, crawling through the window.

But then pain lanced up his leg, and he screamed.

Jeff had slammed the window down on Tom’s ankle, blood gushing from a big cut right over his bone. He fell out and landed on his side in the graveled dirt, the air and ground freezing. But he didn’t hesitate. Sobbing, he got to his feet and limped to his bike, which he kept leaning against the wall just outside his bedroom window.

He jumped on and started pedaling, pain shooting to his knee with every push.

“Wait!” he heard, and glanced back. Jeff was leaning out his window, eyes wide with panic. “Tom! Where are you going? Wait, please. I’m sorry!”

But Tom kept pedaling, zooming down the street. He’d been unable to grab his phone before running away, but at least it was safe under his mattress, on silent. Unless Jeff trashed his room, Tom would be able to recover it the next day. And he doubted Jeff would do anything to his stuff. The fear in his voice meant he knew exactly where Tom was headed, and to whom.

It was slow going, maneuvering through the streets and toward the outskirts of town. Blood trailed behind him and made his shoe squish wetly every time he pressed down on the pedal. He tried to keep his bike steady, tears blurring his vision. There were no street lights this far away from his house, and the night started to creep in on him with no light source. The moon was a sliver and the stars could only do so much, even if he felt they were on his side. His teeth started chattering and his limbs became stiff with cold, breaths clouding in front of his face.

But he eventually turned into Chris’s road, wheezing, imagining great slinking things chasing him, moving low to the ground ready to snatch him into the brush. He collapsed next to the garden, only half aware of the handful of motorcycles parked in the drive. His ankle was swelling and his lungs felt tight with fatigue and panic. Tripping onto the porch, he pushed through the living room door and was met with what felt like hundreds of eyes, none of them belonging to Chris. There was cigarette smoke and music from a small stereo in the corner, and beer. Lots of beer. But no Chris.

“Daddy,” he murmured, feeling weak and dizzy. He trembled.

“Hey kid, you okay?” One of the men stood and took a step toward him. Tom fell back, catching himself on the doorjamb.

“Don’t touch me,” he gasped.

“Whoa, easy. Who are you looking for?”

“That’s Chris’s kid,” someone said from the sofa, and Tom saw that it was that guy who questioned Tom’s age all those weeks ago at the first bonfire. Tom never bothered to learn his name. Was it Johnny?

Maybe Chris was in the bedroom, Tom thought, already hobbling through the smoke and denim-clad legs.

“Go on, little faggot,” Johnny said, and slapped Tom’s ass.

Tom squeaked and jumped away, losing his balance and hitting the floor. His ankle on fire, Tom clutched at it, sobbing softly.

But before anyone could laugh, the room went deathly silent, the only sound the woeful croons of some country singer on the radio.

Tom looked up and saw Chris standing in the front door, his eyes on Tom. Very slowly, they slid over to Johnny.

“That was a nasty thing to do, Johnny,” one of the other guys said. “You saw the kid’s upset about something.”

Johnny held up his hands, addressing Chris, who was taking even steps into the room. “Look, man. It was only a joke. I didn’t mean for the kid to fall—.”

Chris lurched forward and grabbed Johnny by the front of his jacket. He brought his leg up and kneed him in the stomach. He landed two solid blows to his face, a quick fist and elbow combination, and Johnny went limp. Dragging him to the door, Chris tossed him outside, where he landed on the frozen ground with a grunt. He turned and had only to stare into some middle distance before all the others were jumping to their feet and leaving in a hurry. Chris bolted the door and then rushed to where Tom lay shaking on the floor.

“Daddy?” he breathed, blinking to make sure.

“Baby,” whispered, cradling Tom’s face. His own was pinched with worry and anger. “What happened? Who did this? Jesus Christ, you’re freezing.”

Tom winced when Chris hauled him into his arms and carried him to the bedroom. He stripped them of their clothes and then set him down in the shower stall, cradling him in his arms on the tiled floor. Warm water sprayed over them and Tom nestled closer, lips at Chris’s shorn hair, the longer middle strands tangled in his fingers.

He told him everything. What Jeff had called him, the flying glass of liquor, breaking down his door, escaping through the window, the injury to his ankle, what he feared Jeff might have done to him had he caught Tom this second time.

At first Chris looked genuinely shocked when Tom mentioned Jeff’s name, as if someone actually disobeying him was too outlandish a thought. But then his features hardened and he hugged Tom tighter, smoothing a hand over his naked thigh, the red tint of blood swirling down the drain slowly turning pink and then disappearing altogether. He spoke no words of Jeff, only murmured gently to Tom, wrapping him in a warm towel, drying his hair and kissing his tear-stained face. He bandaged the cut and brought in a small space heater. Tucking Tom under the blankets, Chris stood over him, a blank look on his face.

“Your phone?”

“I had t-to leave it, Daddy.”

“How did you get here?”

“My b-bike.”

Chris’s jaw clenched. “Is he still home?”

Tom tried to control his chattering teeth. “Don’t think s-so. He was drinking, but c-called me back as I rode away. Sc-screamed that he was sorry. I doubt he—he would have stayed.”

Chris said nothing, just bent down and kissed Tom’s forehead.

“I’m going to get your phone back. Okay? Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Daddy, no!” Tom cried, sitting up. He snatched Chris’s wrist. “Stay with me. Please don’t go.”

Chris hesitated, as if his mind was already set on finding Jeff and kicking his ass. But he nodded after a moment and lay down beside Tom over the blanket. Tom pulled him close, arms wrapped around his back. Eventually his shivering died down and he quieted as he fell asleep, but still Chris held him, stroking his hair, hugging his slack body, so thin and delicate, so trusting and lovely. Why he’d chosen a criminal to love and deliver himself to, Chris didn’t know, but he wouldn’t break that trust, he would keep Tom safe above anything else.

Eyes hard on the far wall, images of all the ways he would make Jeff pay flashed in his mind—jaw cracked and hanging crookedly unhinged on his face, kneecaps busted, bone shards pushing through his skin. Chris didn’t like guns, thought they were a coward’s weapon, but he used the occasional knife when necessary. Jeff, though, seemed beneath even that.

Tom whimpered and clutched at Chris, brows drawn low in his sleep.

“Shh, baby,” Chris said softly. “You’re safe here.”

When it was obvious Tom wouldn’t wake, Chris disentangled himself, hesitating when Tom’s hands tightened in his shirt, reflexive and completely unconscious. Setting the blankets up to his chin, Chris closed the bedroom door and went into the living room.

It was a Thursday night and he hadn’t been expecting Tom. The guys usually came over during the week to update him on the situation with the liquor stores, with whom the motorcycle club had an agreement. In exchange for protection, the liquor store owners would provide free booze and a monthly fee to dispatched riders, who would collect the goods and bring them back to Mick, who in turn distributed it among the crew. Despite his age, Chris was unofficially Mick’s second in command, a position that usually went to an older member. His stint in prison, however, had left Chris somewhat out of the loop, so some of the guys had been coming over to fill him in on how business had gone while he was on the inside. A few things had changed. Two stores were crossed off the list for non-payment, and a few more added in their place. Jim Harveux had been acting as second-in-command while Chris was gone, and he gladly relinquished the title to Chris. Jim was a good guy, an older guy, and the only thing he really cared about was the meaning of the ride, not the power behind it. Chris’s return to command had seemed to irk some of the newer guys, like Johnny, but Chris couldn’t really give a shit. He had the support of the majority of the crew, including all of the older members, and that’s all that mattered.

That week, all nine liquor stores would have a biker posted close by, in case of a break in or attempted robbery. Intervening before the police often led to a faster course of action, either capturing the thief or stopping the burglary from even taking place. For insurance reasons, the store owners often didn’t even call the authorities, keeping everything under the counter. Sometimes, just the presence of the bikers kept any crimes from taking place.

Since being released, Mick had given Chris only the bare minimum of jobs, letting him acclimate to being on the outside again. His job at the mechanic shop helped, getting his hands dirty with engine grease, fixing cars and bikes helping to level his head. Besides, he had to keep up a show for his probation officer, that he was keeping a low profile, doing what needed to be done to be a good citizen. He passed all his urine tests and didn’t make a fuss during visitations. It had worked out alright.

He’d mentioned nothing of his side jobs to Tom, but it was how he made most of his money. Lots of it. His little place was paid off, as were his bikes. His monthly outlay was pretty small, things like electricity and water and the small taxes for his land. The rest of his funds he had hidden away, keeping an average amount in a bank account that he accessed by debit card only.

The night Chris was arrested, he’d been after Tony, whom Mick had dispatched to handle the late-paying owner of a liquor store downtown. When Chris got wind of it, he’d checked the books and saw that he had the owner as being current with his payments and booze delivery. He’d called Mick and explained what he knew. Mick seemed quiet about it, eventually admitting that Tony had been handling the books that day and saw the store owner’s supposed lapse in payment.

“Go on after him” Mick had told Chris. “Stop him. Bring him in. We don’t want Tony breaking the guy’s face for nothing.”

Not about to let good business go sour because of a miscalculation on Mick’s part, Chris had jumped on his bike and accosted Tony just a street from the store. They’d broken out in a fight, both attempting to carry out his boss’s orders. Chris had won. Tony was sent to the emergency room and Chris to jail. The only good Tony managed to do was stay alive, or else time would have been added to Chris’s sentence for manslaughter.

He’d thought of that exchange for years locked his cell, and now he wondered if there was something more behind the whole reason why Mick had sent both Tony and Chris to the same liquor store, each with entirely different commands. Such doubts had been on his mind tonight, just before Tom arrived bleeding and frozen stiff. Jim had pulled Chris aside in his garage and confided in him that he’d heard whispers of Mick and what he’d done to the store owner’s kid.

“Young boy. Maybe fourteen. I just think you should know. It was something dark what he did to that boy. Something…sexual. I like you Chris. And so do a lot of the other guys. You’re good to us. And younger. If you ask me, I think Mick was covering his tracks. Tony goes after the liquor store owner, you go after Tony. All the loose threads snipped tightly. You get locked up, get out of Mick’s hair, and he’s done with it.”

“What happened to the liquor store owner?” Chris had asked.

Jim shrugged, zipping up his leather jacket. “Killed in a drive by a week later.”

“And the kid?”

Jim shook his head. “Don’t know.”

Chris’s stomach fell and it must have shown on his face. Jim took his shoulder.

“I just wanted to warn you. What you hear didn’t come from me. But with that boy of yours? You should be careful. I know what you two have is consensual—it’s more than obvious with how he is with you—but what Mick did to that store owner’s son was not. Only some of the crew know about it, and it’s only whispers at that. Keep that kid close.”

Jim had left and Chris remained in the garage thinking over what he’d said, only to walk into his house a while later to catch the tail end of Johnny’s slap to Tom’s ass, his fall to the floor and Johnny grinning like a damn fool.

And now Jeff.

Grabbing his keys, Chris shrugged into his jacket, wrapping a black bandana with a print of a skull jaw around the lower part of his face. He walked his bike to the start of his dirt road, not wanting to wake Tom with its roar.

He would check his house first. After that, there were only so many bars the piece of shit could go to. And he knew he would go. A man like that, dependent on booze to get through even a normal day, couldn’t stay away from a drink when under pressure.

Tom’s house was dark. Chris investigated outside his window, saw the splatter of blood along the metal railing. He slid the pane up, a slow screech sounding in the night. Somewhere down the street, a dog started barking. In the room, he took a look around at the place Tom slept when he was away from him. Everything looked normal. Unmade bed, textbooks stacked on the nightstand. A rickety desk with chewed pencils stubs and school supplies—a ruler, a calculator, scrawled on index cards. He had a small dresser, drawers half empty, with a busted watch and some loose change strewn over the scarred surface. Shoes and socks lying about, Chris picked his way through the room, squinting in the low light. He bent by the bed and pressed his face to Tom’s pillow, inhaling that soft scent, his shampoo and sweat, that young boy smell. Feeling under the mattress, where Tom had told him ages ago he liked to hide his phone, Chris pulled out the device. He pressed the home button and the screen glowed brightly, a picture of the two of them, Tom smiling shyly at the camera, cheek pressed to Chris’s. There were some game notifications and an alert for a test the following Monday. He shone the phone light over the rest of the room, saw nothing else he thought Tom would need, apart from his schoolbag, which Chris put at the foot of the window. He had plenty of clothes and jackets at Chris’s house to dress warmly there. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and moved on.

The door to the room stood open, the jamb shattered. It looked like Jeff might have cleaned up the evidence a bit, not a shard of wood in sight. Further down the hall, Chris found the main bedroom, but it was empty, as was the living room and kitchen. Doubling back to the master bathroom, Chris lifted the toilet seat and used the tip of his knife to scratch three words into the cheap plastic.

_Coming for you._

Unless Tom’s mother cleaned the toilet bowl thoroughly—and judging by the state of their bathroom, she probably wouldn’t—then Jeff would be the only one who saw the message.

Back in Tom’s room, he grabbed the calculator and the index cards and put them in the schoolbag, which he slung over one shoulder. He left the house the way he came in, through Tom’s window, closing it behind him. It was late, half past ten, and the bars would be mostly full for a Thursday night. He headed home again, Tom’s bag strapped to his back. Jeff would get the message and then Chris could take his time with punishing him. Making Jeff wait would be half the pleasure.

**

Tom was still asleep when Chris got back.

Curled up on his side, Tom slept deeply and quietly, face slack and peaceful. Chris left the bag on the floor by the closet and went into the kitchen to cook him some food.

The next morning, Chris drove Tom to school. He squeezed him tight before climbing off the bike and passed him his helmet.

“I’ll come get you,” Chris said.

“Thanks, Daddy,” Tom said, and smiled. There were no kisses. They’d done plenty of that just after waking up, Chris mounting him and hammering him hard into the mattress, lying so still afterward, the cool breezes of dawn whistling against the window, their kisses slow and soft.

The cut on his ankle was still tender and bruised black, but a small bandage was all he needed. He tried not to limp as Chris pulled away and disappeared around the corner. Tom stared after him, unaware that Bobby had stepped up beside him.

“Who was that?”

Tom startled. “Jesus! I didn’t hear you.” He hesitated. “Um, he’s a friend.”

“You know a biker?”

Tom laughed. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He slapped Bobby’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

**

Parked in the alley, Chris watched Tom’s house, the black skull bandana back over his face. It was an older neighborhood, a bit on the rough side, and he imagined all the trouble Tom had to avoid to stay so sweet.

Tom's mother had left ten minutes ago, her sad little car puttering down the street. The other car, Jeff's, was a slightly newer model and still parked in the drive.

Chris waited, sitting back on the bike, arms crossed. He propped one foot on the frame, eyes sharp on his surroundings. His shades darkened the bright morning light. So early in November, the days stayed cool and brisk, the usual warm desert winds not to return until early April.

At the house across the way, a man and a woman barreled out of their front door. The woman was yelling about baby formula, the man knotting up his tie in rough haste. He got into his car and drove away, the woman muttering and stalking back into the house.

And then movement to his left caught his attention and Chris flicked his eyes to Tom's house, where Jeff was coming down the front walk, toilet seat in hand.

Chris smirked and stared him down, counting the seconds for when the man finally looked up. When he did, Chris kept still, the bottom flap of his bandana moving in the cold wind. Even at a distance, he could see how Jeff paled, stuttering to a halt, toilet seat clutched under his good arm like a stupid prop in a comedy movie. Bug-eyed, his mouth opened and closed helplessly, until after a long minute, he turned and practically tripped in his haste to get back up the drive.

Starting up his engine with a loud roar, Chris guided the bike out to the front of the lawn, smiling at the flicker of movement at the curtains. He stared for a long moment and then kicked the bike in gear, roaring around the corner and out of sight.

The next time he saw him, Jeff was at the hardware store, the outline of a new toilet seat visible in a plastic bag. Chris was parked under a bare-limbed Palo Verde, no bandana this time, toothpick rolling between his lips. Jeff spotted him and retreated into the store again, nervous glances thrown over his shoulder.

Chris let him be after that, knowing Jeff would be a nervous little mouse for a few days. Let him struggle with his guilt and his fear and that toilet seat one-armed. He would be forced to face Chris in a few days.

He was parked outside Tom's school when classes let out, and Tom was one of the first to show. He grinned at Chris and pulled on his helmet. Hanging on tight, he hugged Chris from behind, his long fingers curled in his shirt the entire ride home.

"How was your day?" he asked happily once they were inside his house. Chris marveled at how joyful he was even after the events of the night before. He toed off the grey and black sneakers Chris had bought for him and sprawled on the sofa. Chris sank down beside him.

"I followed Jeff around a bit."

Tom sat up. "You did?"

"Yeah. Got him good and scared."

Tom crowded closer, scratching lightly at Chris's buzzed hair. "What did you do?"

Chris closed his eyes and sighed, missing him so much. "Nothing. I just let him see me a couple of times."

Tom's eyes fluttered low and he moaned. "You didn't even have to touch him, did you, Daddy? To get him good and scared?"

His voice had lowered, lashes fanning over his cheeks still round with the touch of youth. Chris stared, mesmerized, as Tom's skin flushed, breaths jumping. 

"Tom," Chris groaned, hands circling his small waist, hauling him onto his lap. Tom crashed their lips together, sleek little tongue nudging his own, skimming over Chris's teeth. They grabbed at each other, Chris sliding his hands up Tom's sweater, back so lean and soft and smooth.

He got to his feet and carried Tom into the bedroom. After kissing the small of his back and tugging the purple panties down, he lubed him up, stretched him quickly, Tom whining for him to hurry. Already his tight jeans were engorged at the front, hardly any space for that cock of his. That cock that flopped around when he rode Chris, bouncing almost lewdly between his legs when Chris fucked him from behind.

Slipping inside, Chris kept Tom's jeans and sweater on, the half-nudity making his blood race faster, his senses heightened to every twitch and sound Tom made. Taking hold of the front of Tom’s throat, he rode Tom hard, his injured leg propped up on the bed to avoid hurting it.

"Daddy," Tom gasped, stuttering under thrusts. "I love you, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you, too, baby," Chris groaned, steady at that pace, not wanting Tom to come too soon. He was always so ready to burst, any brush of his prostate making him keen and writhe. Making him take just the full stretch of his cock, Chris avoided the sensitive gland, letting his balls slap loudly against Tom’s sac, the jeans keeping his legs closed tight.

He pulled out and flipped Tom to his back, face flushed and eyes glazed. He jerked his jeans and panties off and pushed back in. He slid his hands under Tom’s sweater, using both thumbs and index fingers to pinch at his nipples, rolling them into tight little nubs. Tom gasped and arched his back, his nipples a sure way to get him extra hot but unable to come.

“Daddy,” Tom sobbed, letting fat tears roll down his temples. How Chris loved those tears, so desperate and brimming with the urgency he felt for Chris, for what only Chris could give him. It made Chris feel invincible, and worth something.

“What do you want, baby?”

“Your cum, Daddy!”

“And what else?”

Tom ducked his head, lashes down coyly. “To please come, Daddy.”

Chris grinned and lowered his hips, already knowing which spot to hit. He thrust once, twice, three times and Tom was screaming, lifting off the bed and clutching at Chris as he pulsed a thick cream. It was only then that Chris let himself go, rooting himself deep and cupping his sac, feeling it draw up as he released inside Tom.

Clinging to him, Tom breathed raggedly, their bodies hot, his sweater making him uncomfortable so that he whined and tugged at it.

“Alright, impatient little boy,” Chris laughed, setting him down and helping pull the garment off.

Once naked, they rolled over on the bed, legs twined, playing with each other’s hair.

“I want a shower and then food,” Tom demanded and kissed Chris’s nose. He hurried to his feet just as Chris was nodding off, yanking at his arm. Chris groaned, but let himself be pulled to the bathroom, where they squeezed into the stall despite having no room to maneuver, preferring to be plastered together anyway.

**

“Do you want to be there?”

Silence. Long fingers in his hair, a puff of sweet breath on his face. And then, “Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m gonna hurt him bad, baby.”

“I know, Daddy.”

He kissed his nose. “Let’s go then.”

**

It was late and there was a house party down the street, thick bass beats pulsing low on the ground. Chris sat Tom down on the floor of his mom’s room, far enough from the door to be safe and out of the way. They kept the lights off. Chris took a wide stance a foot from the door and crossed his arms. For over an hour they waited, the music from the house party the only sound. Tom knew better than to say anything. Chris was crackling with pent up tension, jaw tight, standing as still as a statue.

They’d left Chris’s bike in the alley behind his house. His mother wouldn’t be home until after two in the morning, so Chris would be uninterrupted in what he planned to do.

Down the hall, they heard the front door open and Tom sat up. Chris didn’t move an inch.

Trudging footsteps in the hall and then the bedroom door pushed open. Jeff flicked on the lights, a swell of brightness that illuminated his shocked face.

Chris smirked. “Hi.”

Jeff swallowed loudly, foot sliding back. “Look—.”

“Don’t move,” Chris said. “And don’t run. I’ve got a couple of buddies out on the curb. You won’t get far.”

Tom glanced at him. This was news, unless Chris was bluffing. Tom assumed he was.

Sweat shone on Jeff’s face and he blinked rapidly, as if that might make Chris disappear. As far as Tom could tell, he wasn’t drunk, only clutched his briefcase in one hand, his other slipping into his jacket pocket.

“Why don’t you just go,” he said quietly. “He’s never here anyway. Take him and get out!”

“I told you what I’d do if you touched him again,” Chris said, eyes drifting down to where Jeff’s hand was hidden in his pocket.

“I was drunk, alright! You’ll blame a man for having a drink?”

“Not at all. I need one myself every now and then. Especially after Tom’s fucked himself on my cock for the better part of the morning.” He smiled when Jeff flushed red, angry eyes flitting to Tom, who sat quietly by the window. “But I will blame a man when he beats and tries to force himself on an innocent kid. Especially when I’ve made it clear that the kid is mine.”

Jeff’s face turned an ugly mottled red and he yanked his hand out of his pocket. The gun was small, but had a shiny glint to it, and it made Tom’s heart stop in his chest. Pointing it straight at Chris, Jeff’s arm shook slightly, but he sneered in all his supposed triumph.

Chris’s face remained cold, blinking low at the gun, and then back at Jeff.

“You dumb fuck,” he muttered, and then crossed the space in two large steps.

Panicked, Jeff pulled the trigger and Tom flinched, covering his face. But he only heard the empty click of a stoppered bullet and he peeked through his fingers. Chris barreled into the man, crushing him against the wall. He knocked the gun loose and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket.

“You would pull a gun on me, you fucking coward,” Chris growled, towering over Jeff. “The thing with men like you is that you think holding a weapon means you know how to use it. A safety is useful for proving what idiots you all are.”

He slammed him back against the wall, Jeff’s head thudding hard.

“What did I say I would do to you?” Chris hissed. “If you touched him again? What did I say?”

Pulling at his wrists, toes skimming the carpet, Jeff struggled.

“Answer me!”

“You would break more shit,” Jeff sneered, saliva misting between his teeth. “But I don’t know why you bother with him. He’s not important. His mother doesn’t even ask for him. Why do you think that is, huh? Who wants some fucking fairy for a son?” He started laughing low in his chest, a dark and cruel chuckle.

Tom, hugging his legs to his chest, felt something crack behind his ribcage and tears sprung to his eyes. The hurt was worse than he thought it would be.

“Gone all the time," Jeff continued, leering at him over Chris's shoulder. "He isn’t even _missed_. No one wants you. Not even your own mother.”

Chris flicked his eyes between Jeff’s grey ones, watery and red with pressure-burst blood vessels.

Behind him he could hear Tom crying softly.

“Go outside, baby,” he said abruptly.

“But, Daddy—.”

Tear-filled and saddened. It cut right through Chris’s heart.

“Wait by the bike, Tom.” He didn’t mean for his voice to be so sharp, but he didn’t want Tom to hear any more of the filth Jeff was spewing.

There was rustling and then Tom appeared at his side. Chris chanced him a look. Eyes brimming, nose and cheeks red from crying, Tom stared at Jeff, face slack in his revulsion. And then he slid his gaze to Chris. He leaned his forehead on Chris’s shoulder, nudging it with affection, before walking around him and out the door. Chris heard him leave through the front.

“Daddy,” Jeff scoffed, brows bent angrily. “Unbelie—.”

Chris cracked his elbow hard against one temple. Jeff cried out and slumped. Pulling him upright, Chris looked him dead in the eye. “You don’t deserve that kid. You or his mother.”

“I wasn’t lying about that. She doesn’t ask for him. Hardly raises an eyebrow at how often he’s gone from the house. The kid could be lying dead in the gutter and she wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t think to ask until it was too late and he was rotting into the ground.”

Chris growled and brought his knee up, landing a blow right in his sternum. Jeff grunted and bent double. He wheezed and pitched forward when Chris flung him to the floor, collapsing onto his stomach. Before he could roll over, Chris angled his foot and brought down the heel of his boot directly on the hard bone of Jeff’s right ankle. He felt it fracture under his heel, crunching obscenely, and Jeff screamed in agony.

Down the street, the house party was in full swing. One lone scream lost among many, and heard by none.

Sobbing brokenly, Jeff sagged on the floor, legs splayed wide. Any other time, Chris would have done more, hit him more, made him really feel it, but he didn't want to have touch the piece of shit longer than necessary, and he needed to make sure Tom was okay.

These cookie cutter houses, now on the tail end of decline, all had imitation porcelain bathtubs, enamel layered over cold cast iron. Chris grabbed a handful of Jeff's hair and dragged him to the small bathroom in the corner.

"Open your mouth," he growled, using a handful of Jeff’s hair to prop his chin against the rim of the tub. Jeff shook his head, mumbling and trying to crawl away. "Open it!"

"No, please. I'll leave him alone. I will!"

"That's what you said before. Only now, I'll make sure you won't be able to say anything for a really long time. I hope you have a great time eating your food through a straw."

They struggled, Jeff attempting to push Chris off, Chris finally twisting both arms behind his back, mouth pressed to the tub.

"Open, or I'll break your teeth, too."

Tears pouring from his eyes, snot running from his nose, Jeff pleaded. But Chris shook him again roughly and his lips slowly parted, mouth opening to bite at the rim of the tub.

Chris lifted his elbow and, aiming for the back of Jeff’s head, brought it down hard.

**

He found Tom on the ground by his bike, hugging his knees and crying into his folded arms.

“Baby,” he whispered and scooped him up. Setting him on his feet, he hugged Tom tightly, soothing his rounded shoulders jumping with his tears.

He kissed his forehead. “Baby, we have to go. Come on.”

He got on the bike and Tom followed. He refused the proffered helmet and buried his head against Chris’s shoulder blades. Putting it on himself, Chris started the bike and peeled out of the alleyway, heading toward the edge of town. Against his back, he felt the moist spread of Tom’s tears on his flannel shirt, and he gunned the bike, maneuvering around the handful of cars sharing the road.

He finally braked and slowed around the bend into his property, parking the bike in the garage. They dismounted and Tom tailed him as he closed the big doors and chained them tight. Into the house they went, hands linked. Tom retreated into the bathroom and was in there by himself for a few minutes before he emerged, eyes still swollen. He took Chris’s hand and went back in.

They showered slowly, Tom continuing to cry against his chest. Chris lathered him with soap, rinsing his hair gently, and finally toweling him dry. He was still weeping quietly as they lay in bed after, his eyes swelling, skin burning with the rush of blood to the surface.

Chris held him, stroking his curls, lips at his fevered brow.

“Please don’t cry, baby,” he murmured, feeling helpless. “It’s not worth it.”

Tom hiccupped, trembling against him. “Why—why doesn’t she _want_ me?” he wept, great wracking sobs that shook his thin frame.

Chris drew back and looked him in the eye. “Listen to me, Tom. You can’t listen to a word that man says. He’ll gut you where he knows it’ll hurt the most. And your mom does want you. From what you’ve told me, she’s just tired. She works a lot. Comes home, sleeps, goes back to work. She doesn’t have to worry about you because she knows you’re smart. You’ll look after yourself. And she doesn’t know Jeff like we do. But that’s not our problem. She’ll wise up soon enough. You have to let her make that decision.

“And, Tom, I know you know this. But I want to say it again. I’ll take care of you. I love you. And I’m grateful every day that you chose to write to me and not some other fucktard at the prison.” He brushed a tear away with his thumb, big and fat and gleaming in the low lamp light. “Please don’t cry. You deserve more than this. You deserve love and happiness. Let me give that to you.”

Eventually, Tom fell into a fitful doze, mumbling incoherently, eyes rolling beneath their lids. The emotions of the night had exhausted him, and he clutched at Chris weakly, startling awake if Chris so much as shifted an inch, eyes wide on the room around them, as if his dreams were truly terrible things. Chris hushed him gently each time, tucking him under his arm again until Tom slumped against him, asleep. His sweet little mouth pressed against his skull tattoo, Chris watched him, wondering where Tom would be now if they had never met, what might he have had to endure if Jeff was still after him.

He gritted his teeth at the thought, tightening his hold on Tom, who squirmed slightly, moist warm skin sticking pleasantly to his. Trying to stave off images of Tom bloodied and unconscious, silenced and violated, Chris thought instead of the solace they’d found in each other. No doubt Chris would have eagerly fought yet another person in prison, consequently extending his time; or even jumped right back into the dirty part of the business with the crew before he was ready, broken probation, quit his job. It was endless all the ways he could have gone wrong. Having found a new focus in Tom, Chris could easily see the coming years, when before they might have been blurred by the possibility of death or further imprisonment.

Chris rubbed his eyes and reached behind him to turn off the light. Nose in his curls, he relaxed against Tom and slept.

**

The only reason Tom went to school the next day was because he didn’t want the administration calling his mother and alerting her to his absence. He attended every class, took diligent notes, and hid behind the bleachers during lunch, playing a penguin game on his phone and listening to the radio station on his ear buds.

Chris picked him up after, taking him to an ice cream parlor downtown.

Tom knew he was worried about him. Those squinted eyes focused on him as they shared a sundae, at Tom’s wordlessness. Chris didn’t push him. He simply took his hand under the table and shared in his silence.

Tom did his best not to think about what Jeff had said, knowing that Chris was right. He couldn’t hurt Tom physically anymore, so he would hurt him emotionally, attacking the only part of him that Tom thought was still unobtrusively his. But Tom had the glaring suspicion that she wasn’t really entirely his anymore, and hadn’t been for a long time. Growing up without his biological father had meant he got to keep his mother to himself. She never really dated. Jeff was the first one she allowed to woo her, buy her things, help her around the house. When he moved in, it was just as surprising to Tom as it seemed to be for her, who shrugged and went about her business, only now with a set of helping hands. It wasn’t that Tom didn’t help. He did. He washed dishes and he swept and he dusted and he tried to cook, but wasn’t very good at it. But he also had school and that took up so much of his time. Jeff seemed able to help with so much more, handy with stuff around the house, handy with money for the bills. Tom felt more and more brushed aside until he stopped contributing altogether, seeking constant sanctuary in his room, in his books and his bike, which would take him wherever he needed to go. His bike was now a permanent sight on Chris’s porch, as were all his clothes and belongings in the rest of the small adobe house. Tom had even stored the original letters he and Chris had exchanged when he was still in prison in the purple bag his panties had come in, putting them away at the top of Chris’s closet.

Over the next few days, Tom continued with his silence, sleeping late, venturing no further than the garden. Chris hovered, bringing him pastry cakes from the Mexican bakery or peach juice from the fund raiser stand hosted by the nine-year old girls’ softball league. Tom would accept everything, smiling at Chris, kissing his lips, but he wasn’t ready to talk yet, and Chris didn’t pressure him. Tom got in the habit of walking around the house in Chris’s long shirts, which fell to mid-thigh, the color of his panties peeking through the material. Chris would corner him, their make-out sessions urgent and rough, punctuated with moans and lip smacks. Tom, freshly bruised and flushed post-coitus, would lie back on the couch smiling lazily, the late shafts of sunset warming his cheek, a hummingbird flitting at the window.

He was skimming webpages one day for a research project at the kitchen table, legs curled under him so that a peek of pink panties showed at his hip, when his laptop died abruptly. He whined quietly, frustrated with the machine, tapping on the unresponsive power button. Chris stood from the couch and kissed his mouth fast.

“Do you want to come with me or do you want to be surprised?”

Tom frowned. “What do you mean?”

Chris smiled. “You can pick or I will.”

Still confused, Tom shrugged his shoulders delicately. “I guess I’ll pick?”

“Go change, kitten.” Chris smacked his ass lightly as Tom darted away.

Ten minutes later, they were on the road. Chris pulled into the parking lot of the biggest electronics store and they were shown by an employee to the computer section. Tom’s eyes widened at all the models, trailing his fingers over the gleaming covers, the machines available in an array of various sizes and colors. When the associate stepped away for a moment, Tom leaned in and whispered discreetly, “These are too much, Daddy.”

“No, baby, they’re not. First of all, I could buy like four of these at once if I wanted. But I’m not. I’m buying one. And it’s for you. You’ve been struggling with that piece of crap computer for months now. I can get you a better one.”

The associate returned and they fell silent. In the end, Tom chose a silver laptop that the employee assured him would sync perfectly with his phone, that the two devices were made by the same company that developed their technology to stream and function seamlessly with each other. Adding a protective hard shell case and a pair of soundproof earphones, Tom watched with wide eyes as Chris paid for the items and warranty plan with cash. Mouth slightly agape, the bright blue bag clutched to his chest as they walked back to the parked bike, Tom seemed in shock.

Chris laughed, hugging him around the shoulders. “Babe, are you okay?”

Tom nodded numbly, the feeble winter sun crowning his curls in gold. His breaths puffed out in front of him. “Yes, Daddy. I think I’m okay.” He looked down, his long fingered boy hands spread wide on the computer box, protective of it already.

Chris frowned. “What is it?”

Tom shuffled his feet, shrugging. “I guess…I guess I can’t help but remember what…he said about you buying me things. That—that it made me a—.”

“Don’t say it,” Chris warned.

“—whore.”

Chris sighed and took the bag out of Tom’s arms, prying his fingers loose from around the edges. He took his hands and sat him on the seat of the bike.

“Baby—.”

“Yes, Daddy?” Tom looked up at him, hair fluffed gently by the breeze.

“Baby, is Jeff someone that matters to you?”

Tom’s face collapsed in disgust. “No, Daddy!”

“Is he someone whose opinion you take seriously?”

“No.”

“Is he someone that you know is mentally manipulative? Hurting you in the only ways he knows he can?”

Tom’s brows drew down, his lovely face saddened. “Yes, Daddy. He is.”

Chris squatted in front of him, holding both wrists. “And have I ever called you a whore?”

The softest whisper, downturned lashes. “No, Daddy.”

“I’ve called you my little slut, right? But that’s because I love when you’re slutty for only me. It’s a part of our intimacy, being open with each other physically. Not being afraid to show that emotion. But you’re not a whore, Tom. I buy you things because I love you. And because I want you to have the best. What makes how I buy you things different from other couples? Are they whores too?”

“No.”

“So, this computer, and all the other things I have and will ever buy you are because you deserve them and because you mean everything to me. Not because you perform sexual acts. That’s vulgar and I don’t like it.”

He winked and Tom giggled, knowing Chris found practically nothing vulgar.

“Okay, Tom?”

“Okay, Chris.” He bit his lip and took a deep breath. “Thank you for being so patient with me. What he said about my mom really hurt, but I’ve been trying to get over it. I think I know how she feels for me without him helping me decide that. Sometimes it’s hard to tell yourself the truth, I guess.”

“I think she loves you, Tom. She just shows it differently.” He shook his head. “We don’t get to choose who are families are.”

Tom leaned down and nuzzled his cheek, the bristles of Chris’s stubble tickling him. “Yes, we do, Daddy.”

He pulled back and they stared at each other, the sun filtering through Tom’s irises in a way that made Chris’s heart skip.

And even though it was broad daylight and they were in the middle of a crowded parking lot, Chris leaned up and kissed him softly. Tom leaned into it, his thin little bow-mouth pursing sweetly.

“Now let’s get home and you can show this old man how to use this thing, huh?” He patted the bag on the ground and Tom grinned.

**

The holidays came. Tom spent the bare minimum time at his own house, where a gaunt-looking Jeff would sit stiffly in the living room, nursing both fractured ankle and broken jaw. His tepid silence meant Tom was able to sneak in and out of the kitchen more often, often catching his mother by surprise with a kiss to her cheek or a squeeze from behind.

Tired and worn-out, she would smile and cup his cheek, tell him he looked taller somehow and that his cheeks were filling out.

“Remind me just of your daddy,” she said one evening, popping more gunk into the blender for Jeff’s shake. Tom blushed bright red and stuttered that he had to go.

“Honey, wait!”

He turned and she patted her hands dry on her work apron. “Listen, baby. With Jeff’s jaw wired shut, I was thinking it would be kinda rude to make something big for Thanksgiving. I was actually planning on taking him down to the casino. They have this great shake bar there and he loves the slots. I was just wondering if you might have someone you could spend it with. Just this year? You’re not allowed in the casino just yet, but I feel terrible for the poor thing after we were broken into.”

Tom cleared his throat and tried his best to look discouraged. “Oh. Okay, yeah. No, you’re right. He’s looking kinda lean. And us eating in front of him isn’t nice. I have a buddy from school who invited me over, actually. And I wasn’t gonna go, but maybe now I can?”

“Oh sure, baby!” she said, looking relieved, and Tom really couldn’t bring himself to think that she hated him. She was just a bit distant, but she cared. He knew she did. And he was home for school nights, gone during the weekends. He still spent some time with her, but he was starting to feel like he knew where his home was, and it wasn’t with her anymore.

“How about I just spend the night? He has this cool gaming system.”

She nodded and squeezed his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay with it. I don’t want you to feel put out.”

He shook his head and smiled. “I’m okay, mom. I promise.”

She smiled. “Okay, baby.”

He was half tempted to tell her about having a boyfriend—without most of the details, of course—but she was already turning back to Jeff’s shake, blowing a strand of hair out of her face.

Chris was more than excited about the prospect of a real Thanksgiving meal after six years of prison food that he likened to concrete mush. He even threatened to buy Tom a cooking apron and have him wear it nude as he flitted around the kitchen. Tom, of course, smiled and grabbed Chris’s ass, telling him not to be making any promises he couldn’t keep.

Learning to maneuver on his new laptop, Tom began researching different cooking recipes, watching demonstration videos on YouTube. He wrote out a list of groceries, and Chris borrowed a car from the mechanic’s shop to bring them home. Tom stocked the fridge and pantry, cleaning out the cupboards, washing all of Chris’s dusty pots and pans and various plates and mismatched glasses. He had Chris buy him cleaning supplies and scrubbed every inch of the guest and master bathrooms. He emptied out the ash trays and piled up the Playboys and the TV Guides under the lamp table in the corner; swept out the porch of dead leaves and stray cigarette butts; lit a candle by the kitchen window.

Every evening he liked to spend time in the kitchen while Chris worked on his bikes out in the garage. And after Chris shuffled in and washed his hands, Tom felt a surge of pride swell in his chest when he presented him with dinner. Chris would moan with pleasure at every first bite and Tom giggled, standing to serve him more when he finished. It was different from when he tried to cook at his mother’s house. He always felt so inadequate and ill-prepared there. What he made usually ended up sitting in plastic containers in the refrigerator, his mother too tired to heat it up, Jeff too scornful. But at Chris’s house, the kitchen felt entirely his, where he experimented with different plates, Chris devouring everything.

“You’re going to get me fat,” Chris accused sleepily one night after another good meal.

Tom, bouncing on his lap, cried out softly and clenched with a violent shudder, spurting a hot gush of cum on Chris’s chest.

“Mm,” he breathed, sweaty and content. “And I haven’t even tried my hand at baking yet, Daddy.”

“Goddamn,” Chris groaned and flipped them fast, pumping hard into him to finish with a grunt and plenty of cozy kisses.

They spent a quiet evening at home for Thanksgiving. Tom’s first attempt to cook a turkey was surprisingly successful. It was all the other, smaller things that made him frantic with worry. Chris helped with chopping things here and there, eating most of everything and generally getting in Tom’s way. But the potatoes were mashed and the turkey stuffed and the rolls buttered and Tom finally collapsed in a chair and promptly fell asleep for an hour, flakes of something green stuck to his cheek. After their meal and a slice of pumpkin pie—store bought—Tom cuddled on the sofa with Chris, both too full to even move.

“Mick wants me to do a job for him next week,” Chris said, voice deep with fatigue.

“What kind of job?”

Chris briefly explained the arrangement with the liquor stores and the fees the owners provided to the crew for protection.

“So you have to go collect a fee?”

“Yeah. But the books I have aren’t current. I have to take his word for it.”

Tom remained quiet, thumb drawing a half circle over Chris’s shoulder.

“Do you trust him, Daddy?”

Chris sighed and rested his head back. His pause made Tom think that maybe he didn’t.

“Yeah. I mean, sure I do. He’s our boss. He always looks after the crew.”

Tom lifted his head. “But, Daddy. Even you said that he’s been weird since you got out. And he’s definitely weird with me.”

Chris cupped Tom’s head. “I know, baby. I know he is. And that’s why there’s no way in hell I’m letting him near you.”

“But you’ll still do the job?”

“Yeah,” Chris said, a bit resignedly. “I’ll still do it. I kinda have to.”

“But aren’t you his second? Can’t someone else do it instead?”

Chris closed his eyes and appeared to have fallen into a doze when he said, “I have to do it. So I will.”

They left it at that, a soft rain falling outside. On the kitchen table, a candle’s burning wick fluttered from the wind whistling in through the cracked window, throwing long shadows over their sleeping forms.

**

“You going over to see Mitchell this afternoon?”

Mick moved from one side of the garage to the other, boots sliding in the sand, one long fingered tanned hand touching the gutted bike engine on the work table.

Chris wiped his hands on a rag, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah. Going down there early, before the bonfire tonight.”

Mick crossed his arms and leaned against one of the bikes parked in the corner.

“Yeah. Yeah, your boy loves those, doesn’t he?”

And as if bidden by the mere mention of him, Tom came bounding into the garage, bypassing Mick without seeing him.

He was wearing one of Chris’s long-sleeved flannel shirts, the red and blue one, bare-legged, boots laced to mid-shin. It was cold outside, but the kitchen was probably warm, and Tom looked so beautiful with his blushing cheeks.

He had a napkin-wrapped bundle in his hands.

“Daddy! You _have_ to try one of these. They’re so good!”

He skidded to a stop before Chris, unfolding the napkin. A handful of maple-brown cookies sat bundled within, and Chris took one. They were gooey and sweet and still warm.

“What are these?” he asked, mouth full.

Tom grinned. “Ginger molasses cookies. I sprinkled some sugar powder over the top of them. Do you like them, Daddy?” His face was wide and expectant, brows drawn up adorably.

“You got any of that for me?”

Mick’s voice curled over to them from the corner, and Tom spun with a gasp.

When he saw who it was he jumped behind Chris, face burning.

“You ain’t gotta hide from me. Come on out from behind there, it’s alright!” Mick said, waving his arm forward, laughing to himself.

But Tom stayed put, peeking at him over Chris’s shoulder, a hand curling in the back of his shirt. Chris turned to him, blocking him from Mick’s sight.

“These are great, babe,” he said quietly, so that only Tom could hear him. “Did you make more?”

Eyes down, Tom nodded. “Two more dozen.”

“Keep them warm for me. I’ll be right in.” He kissed his forehead. Tom glanced at Mick before darting away and into the sunlight. At the door, he turned around and mouthed ‘sorry’ to Chris, who winked at him. He watched Tom go, finishing the rest of his cookie in silence.

Mick shook his head. “What in the world did you have to do to get that boy to call you daddy?”

Chris wiped his hands on the back of his jeans and spared Mick the briefest of glances. Already Tom’s perfume was fading in the air inside the garage, heavy with gasoline and engine fluid. He returned his attention to his project. “I didn’t do a damn thing. He likes to call me that.”

Mick tilted his head knowingly. “And you like to hear it.”

Chris said nothing. Internally, he wished Mick would get out of his sight.

“Listen, uh. Why don’t I take Tom to the bonfire?”

Chris put his tool down and cut his stare over to Mick. Everything Jim had told him about Mick and the liquor store owner’s son flooded Chris’s mind, and he had to control his urge to jump across the table and throttle Mick if he so much as looked Tom’s way again.

“You might get tied up at the job. Sometimes these things take longer than you expect.” Mick stood and walked over to the table. “I can take him over when I go. He likes hanging with the girls. He’ll be fine. We’ll all wait for you. Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. Tell the kid I can pick him up later.”

He patted the table in a quick motion, cutting the conversation short. Striding out, he climbed on his bike and it roared to life. Chris paused at the double doors and squinted into the late morning light. As soon as Mick was gone, he walked quickly up the path to the house and around the garden.

Tom was in the kitchen, squinting at his computer propped open on the counter, a cooking video demonstration playing on the screen. Hands swallowed by a clump of sticky dough, he looked up when Chris entered.

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I didn't know he was here."

Chris hugged him from behind. "It's okay, baby. But listen, go get dressed. We're leaving in a bit."

Tom craned his neck to look at him. "But I thought you had your job to do."

"I do. But you're coming with me."

Tom frowned, and then glanced around the kitchen, where he had something of a baking factory going. "I just put a batch in, Daddy."

"Go on and get dressed. They'll be done by the time we're ready to leave."

Tom quickly washed his hands and lay a moist towel over the bowl with dough.

After he was dressed, he took out the finished cookies and lay them on the counter to cool.

Riding into town, Chris realized they were early for his appointment with the store owner, but something about the entire exchange with Mick had left him on edge. He couldn't pinpoint what it had been about their conversation that spooked him, but the possibility of Mick arriving unexpectedly at his house while Tom was alone had Chris bursting into action.

Behind him Tom squealed happily and tightened his hold around Chris's waist. Chris turned and saw Tom’s finger pointing out of the corner of his eye to a small corner bookstore in the plaza across the street from the liquor store.

He was early. The owner wasn’t expecting him for a while. And the parking lot at Mitchell's was full, people probably stocking up on liquor for that night's parties and the weekend ahead. He would wait for a lull in foot traffic. He guided the bike to the left and parked outside of the bookstore. Tom jumped off and left the helmet on the seat. Chris followed him in.

“Hey there,” said the woman behind the counter. Tom shot past her with a quick hello, disappearing behind the towering bookshelves. “Little brother?” she asked, smiling at Chris.

He nodded easily. “Yeah. He’s visiting from out of town. Loves to read.”

She reached under the counter and brought out a slip of paper. “Here’s a coupon for buy two get one free. He’d probably like that.”

Chris thanked her and went to find Tom.

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, running a long finger over the spines of the books on the bottom shelf. Chris squatted next to him.

“Babe, you can’t call me Daddy in here, okay?” he whispered.

Tom’s head snapped up. “Why not?”

“Because that lady thinks you’re my little brother. Go with it.”

Tom shrugged. “Okay.”

Chris meant to only drop Tom off and let him meander in the bookstore while Chris collected the fee from the liquor store, but he couldn’t bring himself to head outside to his bike. He kept walking among the bookcases closest to the door, peeking between the shelves at the liquor store across the street. Customers came and went, weighed down with cases of beer and bottles of wine. He could barely make out the figure of Mitchell behind the glass-encased counter. Chris didn’t like how he kept glancing into the street, head turning left and right. What was he looking for? Had someone tipped him off that Chris was coming? The crew liked to keep the dates and times of their collection visits a secret, otherwise the owners might begin to make themselves scarce when their payment was due.

He hesitated, pretending to read the titles on of the books, picking one up at random and absently turning it over in his hand as he watched the store from under his brow. There didn’t appear to be any sign of any police activity, no cruisers patrolling. But unmarked cars could be anywhere and the cops were getting smarter with how they concealed even those. There was no one standing idly on the sidewalk or talking into a phone down the block. But undercover cops were good at hiding in plain sight. One might even be inside the store, waiting.

The dash across the street on his bike seemed suddenly foolhardy, rash and risky. Especially with Tom depending on him to come back for him. If the parole board even suspected that he was up to no good, Tom would be waiting for a long time. Chris stood with his arms crossed, the bookstore cashier talking with another customer, their voices happy and light and full of information about this or that new release.

Something was off. This wasn’t like the handful of jobs he’d done since getting released from prison. He handled those well, never needing to use brute force with the store owners, who all respected him, and appreciated when Chris showed up rather than someone like Johnny.

“Chris,” Tom called and Chris followed his voice to the back of the store. Tom was standing on his tiptoes, hand straining to the highest row of books. Chris reached for him and brought the book down, seeing that he already had half a dozen stacked on the floor by his feet.

“I thought you were coming back for me,” Tom said, stooping to pick up his books.

“I don’t know,” Chris murmured, helping him with the books. “There’s something about this I don’t like.”

They approached the counter and the woman started scanning the books.

“Oh, this is a good one! Hey, you like cooking? Me too! I couldn’t believe what happens at the end of this one. And he won’t release the new book until March.” She made a face and Tom giggled. She scanned their coupon and Chris pulled out his wallet.

“I sure wish they’d move from in front of my sign,” she murmured, squinting out the big glass storefront window.

“Who?” Tom said, taking his bag of books.

“That darn officer. He’s parked right in front of my sign about the buy two get one free sale. Been there most of the morning.” She sighed and accepted Chris’s money, opening the register for his change. But Chris was hardly aware of her anymore. His blood ran cold and he turned to look for the car, spotting it by the long row of hedges lining the plaza, just in front of the bookstore sign. A midsize vehicle with bald black rims and three low antennae above the back window.

He cursed.

It wasn’t the standard Crown Victoria that most undercover cops used. Wasn’t even a Ford. But the antennae and tinted windows confirmed it.

Chris put on his most disinterested face and smiled politely at the woman as she handed him his change.

“Thanks!” Tom said to her, casting Chris a side look. He picked up so easily on Chris’s moods, it scared Chris sometimes.

Once outside, Chris guided Tom to his bike, whispering for him to stay quiet. He didn’t know exactly what the cops were looking for. If they expected to arrest Chris just because he walked into a liquor store, they had something else coming. But he had absolutely no intention of doing that now. As far as they could see he was just buying some books. They might not even pay him any attention with Tom by his side. If they were looking for anything it would be for a single man on a motorcycle. Not a man with a teenaged boy.

“Daddy—.”

“Quiet now, baby.”

Tom obediently closed his mouth.

On the bike, Chris started the ignition and watched in his side mirror for any movement from the cop car. Tom shifted behind him, bunching the bag of books between his legs. He cuddled against Chris and waited. Seeing nothing, Chris put the bike in gear and drove out of the plaza as calmly as he could, eyes glued to the mirror. There was no tail, and he breathed a little easier after crossing four intersections without any incident. He made it back home in record time, securing the bike in the garage and hurrying Tom into the house.

Tom went to the couch and took out his books, lining them in a row on the coffee table, eyes darting to Chris every few seconds where he stood staring out the living room window. Chris knew he was probably making him nervous, but he was angrier and more afraid than he’d been since before prison; prison, where he was caged into a space no bigger than a box, windows so high up he couldn’t see the sky every day; prison, where there were so many rules among the inmates that one wrong step and you might get stabbed in the showers.

There was no way in hell he was going back there.

Mick had to have set him up. All that talk about how Chris would probably get ‘tied up’ at the liquor store, how it would probably take longer than he expected, Chris realized it was more literal than he originally thought.

Mick would have made the call to the police anonymously. There was a strict rule that the crew didn’t work with cops under any circumstances, and even Mick wouldn’t break that guideline. Even if he described Chris, Chris could always insist he was only there to buy Tom books. He wasn’t even near the liquor store, didn’t even make any kind of attempt to approach it.

The fact of the matter was that he had almost been caught. Prison had almost become his home again, rather than this little house with its sudden transformation of food smells and cleanliness and the boy who was staring at him now with the guarded blue eyes.

Chris dropped down beside him.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, pulling him into a hug. Tom went willingly, clutching at him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Tom said, voice muffled in his shirt. “I know you’re worried and it makes me worried.”

Chris pulled away and cupped Tom’s face. “No, baby. I’m not worried anymore. We did nothing wrong. They can’t prove I was there to collect a fee. I took you to the bookstore and we came home. End of story.”

“And the book lady will back us up,” Tom added quickly.

Chris’s heart swelled at the hopefulness in his voice. He nodded. “Yes, baby. She will.”

“So what do we do now?”

Chris stood, a fury settling over his heart. “Nothing. We go to the bonfire. Can your baking wait a little longer?”

“Of course. The dough will be fine.”

“Good. We’ll leave in an hour.”

**

Only, the hour quickly turned into two when Chris was unable to keep from crowding Tom over the edge of the bed, grabbing him before he changed clothes.

“Daddy,” Tom murmured, clinging to Chris, his small frame bouncing under Chris’s heavy bulk. His feet, toes wiggling inside black socks, crossed behind Chris’s back, lifting his hips to meet his thrusts. Chris kissed him hard, clamping lightly on his bottom lip, Tom groaning at the bite. Over his thin waist and inner thighs, he bore the evidence of Chris’s other bites, differently shaded bruises depending on how old they were.

“Make me cum, Daddy,” Tom breathed, cheeks red. “I want your cum inside me. Bursting with it. Make me big with your babies.”

“Fuck,” Chris moaned, hips moving faster. Tom cried out, head thrown back, and Chris latched onto his neck. He sucked hard, using both teeth and tongue to mark him good.

“Fuck, Daddy… _yes_!”

Chris felt the sluggish pulse of Tom’s climax between their bellies, his cum always spilling thickly, always so much of it. Tom trembled, eyes rolling back, and Chris hugged him tighter, sucking at his neck.

He rammed in two more times and then groaned, his cock swelling inside Tom as he released.

“More,” Tom murmured, dazed. His hips wiggled lazily, trying to get Chris to go deeper.

“Take it, baby,” Chris said, easing up on his hands, loving how wrecked Tom looked.

His hands drifted to Chris’s ass, cupping him. “More, Daddy.”

Chris shuddered, skin feeling tight, another wave of pleasure rolling through him. “I’m still going, baby.” And he was, the long streams of cum drizzling off to tiny spurts, filling Tom, who mewled and demanded kisses.

They showered quickly, Chris’s tense mood returning despite Tom’s gentle hands on his body.

The skies darkened so early in the winter. Gone were the monsoon rains that rolled in every evening in July and August, a great shuddering frenzy that left the earth gutted and the air purified. There were only a handful of people at the fire—only Jake Harper and Jim and Mick. None of the young guys and their girlfriends were there yet. They usually didn’t arrive until much later.

Tom had changed into one of Chris’s smallest plaid shirts, a see-through under shirt revealed between the unbuttoned flaps. His black boots and tight jeans and mascara had distracted Chris long enough from his anger to push Tom against the wall and suck at the same bruise on his neck. It was turning into a big one, just to the side of his throat, dark already, showing clearly to whom he belonged. Tom was more than happy to sport it, touching it every few minutes, eyes drifting to Chris.

But Chris’s blood was pumping with more than just lust for Tom, who with one look could alleviate the delicate control he had over his anger. Tom knew Chris would never hurt him, so there was no fear in his eyes as he sidled up to Chris and embraced him, pinching his cheeks and smoothing over his stormy brow. But once Chris turned away from that innocent face, his wrath returned, dimming the edges of his vision in red, teeth gritted against the thought that that motherfucking son of a bitch actually tried to get him arrested again. And for what? Because Chris was well-liked among the crew? Because he had figured out that Mick had set him up the first time and sent him off to prison? Or was it because—.

Chris stopped in his tracks, Tom running into him from behind.

“Daddy?” he asked, squeezing his hand. His green fingernails stood out sharply against the white long sleeved shirt Chris wore.

Mick wanted Tom. Just like he wanted that store owner’s son. And he got rid of the father one way or another, the fate of the boy unknown. Only now he was trying to get rid of Chris.

Why not fucking kill me? he thought. Why send me to prison, where I could stew and seethe and eventually get out and come after him?

Because he knows how much you hated prison, and because by then he would have gotten what he wanted.

“Fuck,” he muttered, continuing forward, Tom running to keep up with him.

“Daddy—.”

“I think we should go back,” Chris said suddenly.

Tom’s brows puckered, but then a booming voice sounded behind them.

“You’re here!”

Mick stood there with Jim and Jake, each had a beer in hand. The bonfire was only just a crackling pile of snapping wood in the background. And if Chris wasn’t mistaken, there was a look of quickly masked disbelief in Mick’s eyes, staring at Chris when he probably imagined he would be in a holding cell by now.

“Yeah,” Chris said, tugging Tom forward. “We made it.”

Jim frowned. “Hey, are you okay? You look a little—.”

“You set me up,” Chris whispered, eyes hard on Mick. “You think I wouldn’t notice? The damn cop sitting across the _street_!”

Tom flinched, Chris’s raised voice reverberating loudly over the yard.

“Now, wait a minute. Why don’t we go talk in private—,” Mick started.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Chris said, voice low again. His face was red with anger, and he dropped Tom’s hand. “They can hear everything.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” Jake cut in. “Mick set you up? When?”

“Six years ago and again today. Only this time I was smart enough to catch the signs.”

Jim and Jake glanced at each other, and then at Mick, whose face had gone cold, bent brow glaring at Chris.

“You’re just being paranoid. You have no proof,” he spit out, fingers gripping his beer bottle.

“Yeah, only my gut instinct. And it’s been telling me that you’re a goddamn snake.”

Jim was looking at Mick like he’d just killed a puppy in front of them. “What did you do?”

Mick turned on him. “Nothing! Chris has just been out of the game for a while. He’s gone soft. Especially with his new play thing,” he said, pointing his chin at Tom.

Chris stepped in front of him. “Don’t you fucking talk about him. And don’t change the subject.”

“Wait,” Jake interrupted. “I’m still confused. How did he set you up?”

“Jim, you’ve been second in my stead while I was locked up. Has Mitchell O’Hare ever been late with a payment?”

Jim shrugged. “Not that I recall. I don’t have the books in front me, but I know we’ve never sent anyone to collect from him. He’s always on time.”

“Exactly. Only Mick sent me to collect from him today. And Mitchell looked nervous as hell. Maybe it was that cop car sitting across the street, watching the entire place.”

“I checked the books just this morning,” Jake said. “Mitch is current.”

They all turned to Mick, who was glowering at Chris, jaw set tightly.

“You little bitch,” he whispered, and then sprung on Chris, bringing his beer bottle down on his head. The others jumped back, even Tom, who was stunned to find himself splattered with beer, pieces of dark brown glass falling over his chest.

Chris grunted, but recovered quickly, dropping low and tackling Mick around the middle. They fell to the ground in a dusty heap, scrabbling like animals. It reminded Tom of a scene from a movie he watched at a friend’s house, an illegal betting ring where rabid dogs snarled and bit at each other in a dusty ring.

But then his shock subsided. “Chris!” He jumped forward, but Jim grabbed his arm.

“You don’t want to get in their way, kid. Stand back.”

Fear clutching his chest, Tom watched as Chris landed blow after blow on Mick’s face, the older man taking the hits better than Tom would have hoped.

Mick kicked at Chris and they rolled.

“What the fuck did I ever to do you?” Tom heard Chris yell, between grunts. Mick threw his elbow across Chris’s face and he collapsed to the side. Mick jumped to his feet.

“You’ve done nothing, you little shit. You’re just in my way.”

Chris struggled to his feet, touching his brow to find his fingers bloodied.

They ran at each other again, and Jim, Tom, and Jake shuffled back a few steps.

“Daddy,” Tom gasped, tracking every blow between them. Chris was bleeding from his right eyebrow, sweat spilling down his face despite the cold air. Mick yanked on his hair and Chris screamed, punching at Mick’s ribs until he let go. His leg shot out and he swiped at Mick’s knees, both buckling. He toppled to the ground.

Moving fast, Chris straddled Mick’s waist and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Both were breathing hard, both spitting in all their anger.

“What happened to the kid?” Chris rasped. He shook Mick. “The owner’s son? What happened to him?”

Mick grinned. “You know about that, huh? I was hoping you didn’t. It would put you off my scent with what I plan to do to your boy.”

Chris back handed him. “What happened to him!”

“I fucked him hard. Tore him open. Oh god, he was tight. So sweet and tight. But now he’s buried twenty miles east of here. Tribal land. Protected by the government and restricted by the Indians.” He laughed low, blood oozing from between his teeth. “Family thinks he ran away after his dad was killed. They’ll never find him. No one goes up there.”

Jim and Jake looked at each other, mouths open in astonishment.

“You son of a bitch,” Chris growled, face inches from Mick’s. “You’re never going to lay your hands on my boy.”

He lifted his arm, hand curling into a fist, just as Mick, lightning fast, reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a gun. Chris landed his blow just as the gun went off and Tom screamed, struggling with Jim but the man wouldn’t let him go.

The blast echoed loudly, startling a flock of birds from their nests in the big tree at the edge of the yard. The fire crackled, and everyone was silent, eyes glued on the two men on the ground.

Chris blinked and looked down. The side of his shirt was blown through, a bloom of red soaking into the white thread.

Even Mick’s eyes were wide, looking down at where he’d shot Chris.

“I—I…I,” he stuttered, mouth opening and closing stupidly. “I just want to fuck him, is all. I won’t kill him.”

With a low growl, Chris grabbed the sides of Mick’s head and with a quick twist, snapped his neck, the sick cracking sound almost louder than the gunshot.

Heaving, Chris let Mick’s head fall back, thudding hollowly on the dirt. He clutched his side and collapsed, legs sprawled out over Mick’s.

“No!” Tom yelled, finally disentangling himself from Jim’s hold. He rushed to Chris, dropping to his knees beside him. Jake and Jim followed close behind. “Daddy, no. No, please. Chris!”

Chris blinked up at the sky, evening out from autumn orange into a deeper purple, the firelight casting shadows over his face. He grimaced when Tom pulled up his shirt, but lifted his head to look.

The bullet seemed to have only grazed him, slicing into the meat of his waist, blood spilling from the torn skin.

“Just a flesh wound,” Jim said, sticking a bandana over it. Chris stifled a grunt.

“Hurts like a bitch,” he gasped.

Tom was cupping his face, eyes brimming with tears. He brushed back Chris’s hair, flicking his gaze over every part of his face, fingers getting bloodied by the cut on his brow.

“Daddy,” he whispered, a tear falling into the parched earth. “Daddy, oh god—.”

“He’ll be alright, kid,” Jim said, pressing down on the wound. “He won’t need a hospital. Jake’s got a first aid kit inside. We’ll patch him up in a minute. Stay down, Chris.” He kept a hand on Chris’s shoulder.

Chris lifted his arm to Tom’s waist, the contact comforting him.

“He’s dead,” Jake said. He squatted by Mick’s body, two fingers on his neck.

“Of course he’s dead,” Jim said bluntly. “We all heard the spine snap.”

Tom sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, unknowingly smearing a stripe of Chris’s own blood across his cheek.

“I’m okay, baby. Don’t cry.”

Tom let out another sob, shaking his head.

Jake left and returned a minute later with the first aid kit. Both men knelt over Chris, Tom shuffling over to palm his head. They cleaned the wound and bandaged it tight, Chris’s breath hissing through his teeth with every each touch. And then they cleaned and put a butterfly bandage on his cut eyebrow.

They helped him to his feet, Tom jumping out of the way and trailing after them. One on each side, they walked Chris into Jake’s house. The inner paneling of the house was dark, with long shadows in the corners and across the cluttered walls. Tom rubbed his arms, the air somehow colder in the house than outside. They took Chris to a back bedroom, laying him down on the creaky bed. He was half-conscious, the loss of blood making him pale and weak, his teeth gritted against the pain from the fight and the gun shot.

“Here,” Jake said, searching in his jacket pocket. “Grabbed some Vicodin from my stash. Take one.”

“No,” Chris gritted, eyes on Tom, who stood at the foot of the bed, looking like a lost little ghost.

Jim bent close. “No one’s gonna hurt him, Chris. The only one who would is lying outside. He’ll stay here with you. Me and Jake will take care of the body, let the crew know what happened. It was self-defense. You did nothing wrong.”

Breathing hard through his nose, Chris took a moment, and then nodded tersely. Jake bent and gave him the pill and a chug of his beer. Wincing, Chris fell back on the bed.

Turning to Tom, Jake said, “You can lock the door from the inside, if that makes you feel better. Jim and I’ll be outside, if you need anything. I’m sorry,” he finished, glancing once more at Chris. Both men left and then Tom sprang into motion. He removed Chris’s boots, setting them in the corner. And then he shrugged out of his own, crawling in beside Chris.

Chris’s eyes were half-lidded, already going distant from the pain medication. But he blinked and focused on Tom, tongue darting out to lick his dry lips.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

Tears sprang to Tom’s eyes again and he smiled, brushing Chris’s hair back, cradling his face.

“Yes, Daddy. But I was so scared. I thought he killed you.”

“Fuck if that man was going to take my life. And with a gun no less. Coward,” he said softly, closing his eyes. His chest rose and fell, breaths ragged. “Is it bad? It still hurts like a son of a bitch.”

Tom looked down at the bandage. “Of course it does. But the guys don’t seem super worried.”

“Probably fucked up my tattoo,” Chris murmured, voice fading fast. The pill was working on his system, his eyes closing against his will. “Sleep with me. Baby. Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, Daddy. I’m staying right here with you.”

When Chris drifted off, Tom lay shivering against Chris’s body heat. When he couldn’t stand it anymore, he pulled the musty blanket over from where it hung off the side of the bed. It didn’t cover Chris as much, but Tom was freezing. He wrapped it around himself and watched Chris breathe, a hand splayed over his chest to feel the hard beat of his heart thumping against his palm.

He couldn’t sleep. Especially after hearing the roar of more bikers arriving, voices outside the window, some shouting, some murmuring. What Jim and Jake told the others, Tom didn’t know. And he didn’t care. Chris was alive and Mick wasn’t. Anything else, Tom wasn’t concerned with.

Later, there was a knock at the door and Tom lifted his head.

It was Jim. “How is he?”

Tom let him in and Jim examined Chris, who was fast asleep.

“He’ll need to rest for a few more days. But he should be able to return to normal things in a week. Believe me,” he said, patting his own stomach. “I’ve had a slug or two in my own day.”

Tom smiled, feeling the most comfortable with Jim than any of the other crew members, besides the girlfriends.

“We think he should stay here tonight. Maybe even tomorrow. He can’t ride like this. I mean, he can, but it’s gonna hurt like hell.”

Tom nodded and thanked him.

“Oh, and when he wakes up,” Jim said, almost out the door. “Tell him he’s the boss now. Unanimous vote. Everyone’s on board. And the few who weren’t quit the crew.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t much of a loss.”

Tom shut the door and sat by Chris. He took his hand and traced his fingers over the rough skin, the callouses and the scars. He loved his hands, how big they were, how gentle they could be. His arms, with their great round muscles, the dark outline of his tattoos, skull sockets staring blindly at him in the gloom.

Chris woke around dawn, a groan of pain bubbling up from his chest. Tom was there to hold him, patting down the sweat on his face, murmuring to him sweetly. Jake came in to change his bandage, but Chris refused another pain pill.

The next day, he was able to mount his bike and with hard hugs and firm handshakes, he thanked Jake for letting him stay and rest, and for backing him up.

“We all heard what he said, Chris,” Jake said. “We all heard what he did. He was playing the crew wrong, and that’s the worst a boss could do.”

Back at their house, Chris left the bike exposed in the back, bending double to lift his leg over the seat. Tom helped him, sensing that Chris’s body wasn’t only in pain from the gun shot, but from the fight itself. His cheek was purpling, and dark bruises were forming on his chest and stomach. There was even one long bruise over his shoulder, and Tom had no idea what had caused it.

They limped down the hall and to the bedroom. Chris fell against the pillows with a sigh, eyes closing immediately. Tom undressed him as best he could, pulling off his boots and jeans, and pulling the blankets up to his chin.

Tom cleaned up the kitchen, finishing the cookies from the day before. The ones he’d left on the counter were hard as rocks, so he broke them into crumbs and left some on the window ledge for the birds to eat. The rest he tossed in the garbage. The new cookies he placed in an air-tight container so they would stay soft for when Chris woke up.

Chris slept all day. Tom brought his laptop and books into the room with him, closing the door and turning on the heater. He watched more videos online, wrote comments on what did and didn’t work for him on a community-based cooking site. He read for a bit, reclining against Chris’s back, eventually dozing off, book open on his face.

Monday morning, he dressed for school and kissed Chris awake.

Chris stirred and rubbed his eyes, and then flinched when his brow smarted.

“I’m going to school, Daddy,” Tom whispered, pecking at his nose.

Chris started to rise. “I’ll take you.”

“No,” Tom said firmly, and Chris froze. “Daddy, you need to rest. I can take my bike. I’ll come straight here after school.”

“Are you sure?”

Tom smiled. “Positive. I need you better. Please get better?”

“Yes, baby. I will.”

And over the next two weeks, Chris rested, staying in bed or limping out to the living room to lie on the sofa. Tom cooked his meals and made him warm treats. At night, they slept spooned together, Chris often waking to Tom sucking on his cock, grinning wide at him as he licked at the head with his strawberry tongue. Or like he loved to do, Tom would already be riding him when Chris woke on the verge of orgasm, spilling into him with a choked and drowsy groan, Tom’s giggles following him into sleep again.

They spent most of December and January in a subdued kind of quiet. Chris returned to work, both as mechanic and as boss of his crew. His wound healed cleanly, but closed raggedly, cutting deep into his tattoo. Tom touched it every night, realizing how close he’d been to losing him.

He spent Christmas partially at his mother’s house, making a quick appearance for appearance’s sake. She seemed to understand, without any formal explanation, that he was living somewhere else now. It was a simple and unmentioned fact between them that they didn’t bring up. He would visit with her and then leave again, and she seemed content with it. Jeff ignored him. His jaw and arm had healed and he was traveling the state again, but when Tom was over he left the room.

The morning of his birthday in February, all freezing winds and bitter rains, Chris rolled over in bed and palmed Tom’s neck.

“Move in with me,” he said quietly.

Tom giggled. “I already have.”

“Officially.”

Tom stared at him and kissed his wrist. “Okay, Daddy.”

“You’ll be mine.”

“Like your wife?” Tom said, smiling wide. He scooted closer, his leg squeezing between Chris’s thighs, brushing his cock.

“Mmm,” Chris breathed, wrapping his arms around Tom’s back. “I like the sound of that. My little wife.”

“And your little boy. All in one,” he said softly, eyes rolling back as Chris licked behind his ear.

“I love you,” Chris whispered.

“I love you, too, Daddy.” They squeezed each other tightly.

There would be a bonfire at Jake’s for Tom’s birthday, with a cookout and a big cake and plenty of beer.

“You’re having a drink tonight. Or two or three,” Chris said into Tom’s ear. “You get extra bendy when you’re tipsy.”

Tom laughed and vowed he would, as long as Chris kissed him at midnight.

“I’m going to kiss you every hour,” he promised.

The crew met up at Chris’s house just before sundown, and when it was time to go Tom climbed on behind Chris. He took a drag from Chris’s cigarette, and then crushed it under his boot. Putting his helmet on, he hugged Chris from behind.

“Ready, baby?”

“Yes!” he said, laughing.

Chris waved a hand in the air and revved his engine. Twenty bikes revved theirs in answer. Tom squeezed Chris tightly as they pulled out onto the road and headed deep into the desert, where later that night a raging fire and birthday kisses would welcome him into a new year.

 

End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)


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